Watch your steps
by Adamanta Altiere
Summary: Behold what comes to those who appear in the wrong place at the wrong time. Behold and be warned. COMPLETE.
1. Default Chapter

**Disclaimer:** There were no reasons for me to change my mind since the last chapter of "The Blackthorn", so – I don't own "Lord of the Rings."

**Author's note: **My friends! Please, read this to avoid useless wrangles from both sides.

I don't approve of Mary Sues. I understand the authors who resort to them – this character is simple. It doesn't demand much effort to write about it, it doesn't make the author exert herself; it is as sweet as a spice-cake. And let it be this way – I'm not going to nag. It's about imagination. But what always surprised me is how easily this everlasting "Girl-that-falls-into-the-Middle-Earth" fits in the history of the War the end of which in the literal sense hung by a hair. Rewriting what Tolkien wrote is laudable, yet things just cannot work out this way, if you understand my vague hint. Even if the girl is dumb or keeps mum about her awareness. It's time, it's not a plaything.

But… I don't approve of making a Mary Sue of Legolas either, how it often happens.

I'm not mocking at it. I'm not laughing at it. It becomes not very funny, if you go deeper. You may consider my story a parody - rather a grievous one. I personally don't know how to label it, so let it be – Romance-Angst, may be Action, though … h'm … romance… well, you'll see and you'll judge… May be somebody will help me with labeling.

Great thanks to **Faerlas**, who spent her time on me to check out the poem. (the poem-reading is optional, although it may help to understand the context.)

**Watch your steps**

_**By Adamanta Altiere.**_

The waters of time

Do not bear to be forded

Bemoan the crime

Of the two who ignored it.

Two beings too blameless,

Resistant to lure

With glances too tameless

And spirits too pure-

Each worthy of praise

For the heart of a strong one.

They both had two ways

And they both chose the wrong one.

And rivers had flooded,

And battles had swollen,

And no one had stood it,

And each one had fallen.

Two swords, crossed in anger,

Two steely night-lighters

Broke down with clangour,

Disarming the fighters.

They wept in the shambles

And moaned in pain,

For all their rambles

Had finished in vain.

And goodness was trampled

And darkness was chosen,

And evil was sampled,

And hearts became frozen.

And there left no places

To miss their features…

Two villains - two faces

Of innocent creatures.

**Prologue.**

She was standing on the bridge, as thin and chiselled as the diamond streams of a waterfall behind her. He knew she had fathomed his presence before he stepped out of the trees and strolled to her. So alluring… So enchantingly frail…So unprotected…

She turned her head, bestowing him a tender smile, and as she spoke her voice was the sweetest music to his ear:

"Came to admire the sunset?"

"I came to admire, indeed," responded he, his heart heavy with what he was going to do in a short few minutes, "But not the sunset…"

Her cheeks flushed a little – she bowed her head so that the cascade of dark locks hid the disconcerted glint in her eyes.

"Did you speak to Elrond and Gandalf?" she wanted to know, breaking the uncomfortable silence, which he had no heart to interrupt. He winced, feeling on the rack, because he **had** spoken to them… He had and now he wished he hadn't.

"I did," puzzled by his gloomy intonation, she shot him a questioning glance.

"What ails you, Legolas? Can I help you?" her hand lay on his shoulder, a soft touch hurting him more that all the wounds he had ever got. He shook his head.

"They told me you mustn't stay here," he blurted out, unable to keep it in himself anymore, "You must leave."

A smile blossomed on her face, and she brought her hands to her mouth to restrain a gasp of joy.

"Does it mean that they know how I can leave? Oh, Legolas, I'm going home… Am I?"

He moaned and brusquely swung away not to see those shining hazel eyes, studying him with so much hope in their ineffable depth. They measured him down to his very bottom. They accused him. Though unaware of what a sinner he was in reality, they still did. His nails sunk into his palms.

"Legolas?" all the merriment vanished from her voice, "Legolas… Please, what's wrong with you?"

"That's what is wrong!" shouted the elf suddenly.

Not giving her a chance to pull back, he caught her in his arms and kissed those wonderful lips, sweetened by the honey taste of berries, the lips, coloured as the petals of late spring peonies. She stiffened, yet didn't break loose from his grasp, unskillfully but willingly kissing him in return. He felt her caress the back of his neck, her thin fingers entangling in his scattered hair…

"Gwirith," whispered Legolas, as his free hand stole down to his broad leathern belt.

"What is it?"

"I shall hate myself till I die," forced he and swiftly pressed a cold thing in his fist an inch lower her underarm.

Her eyes widened in shock and a small cry escaped her mouth, whipping against his lips. Horror-stricken, Legolas was watching a shadow of fleeting pain in the dark pupils. A warm wave gushed onto his palm and he drew back his hand, getting sick at the sight of the raw crimson spots, which covered his skin and smacked of wet copper.

He hadn't just done it… He hadn't… He couldn't have done something so sordid.

The girl's lifeless form fell at his feet, the haft of the elfish dagger protruding from her left side. Legolas dropped on the spot and bent over the diminutive body.

"Gwirith…" muttered he lamely, "Gwirith, I'm sorry… I didn't want to hurt you…"

His trembling fingers were travelling all over her now calm face, feverishly stroking her cheeks, her hair, her closed eye-lids. Like a madman he kissed the cooling lips again and again in desperate attempts to warm them with his breath. His reason refused to accept the truth…

"Gwirith!" his outcry was full of woe and misery.

"She doesn't hear you…"

He hadn't noticed Gandalf to come up. The wizard leaned towards the quiet girl, and the unrest in his grey eyes abated… He slowly covered her face with a hood of her emerald-green gown.

"Don't you dare lay your hands on her!" bawled Legolas in rage, "You forced me to do it! You forced me to kill her!"

"It was more than necessary," responded Gandalf, turning to leave, but the elf outstripped him, grabbing the second dagger and pointing it at the serene old man in front of him. Grief and anger befogged his mind.

"Why me?" his voice was breaking with emotions, "Why?"

"You did it, Legolas. Isn't it the best answer?" stated the wizard calmly, "Console yourself, noble Prince. You didn't make her suffer. Now we have to go and announce the sorrowful news to the others. Lady Gwirith expired and it certainly was an accident. Nobody's fault."

Yet the elf remained motionless and cold like the statue of indifference. Only his eyes were burning with dark, spiteful flame, as two live coals among inanimate ashes.

"Be you cursed," uttered he slowly, not taking his glance away from the girl on the ground, "Be you all cursed for bloodying my hands and my soul. And be I cursed for having let you."

"We saved many other souls," rejoined Gandalf, but Legolas didn't listen to him anymore. He was rapidly fleeting away from that horrible place and that horrible picture…

* * *

_(taking a shield and looking from behind it very carefully) Be my guests, review it. :o)))_

_Adamanta._


	2. And the dead will rise

**_Disclaimer: _**I own my cat. She's nuzzling into the keyboard and prevents me from typing. I don't own "Lord of the Rings". It's nuzzling into my imagination and prevents me from sleeping.

**_Author's note: _**Before criticizing me too harshly look into the Author's note referring to the Prologue once more. May be there's something to discharge me. Thanks everyone who reviewed. You make my day. :o)

**HyperSquishy:** Well, if that's depressing I wonder what you might say about the continuation. :o))

**Ara** **Goddess of the Broken:** It's OK, I'm not touchy. Almost. :o) You are actually right, it was the middle of the story about the girl that falls … etc. You all know the beginning – so why should I encumber myself, as for the end – this girl was not so lucky. :o) Read on, there will be explanations.

**Name1:** I hope I'll manage to keep it that way. :o))) Thank you for encouraging me.

**x-jacqui-x: **How could you doubt in it? (shaking my head) :o))) As for the arms … well, he will… yet I'm uncertain about the point of consolation.

Waving my hand to **Zelinia** and sending a huge smile to **Faerlas**!

And here is the epigraph that is meant for the whole story. I committed a crime and translated it from Russian, but for those who understand my language I also give the original.

_If you are death, tell me why you are crying, my lass?_

_If you are joy, I believe in no joys such as you…_

A. Akhmatova

Если ты смерть, отчего же ты плачешь сама?

Если ты радость, то радость такой не бывает…

Анна Ахматова.

**Chapter 1.**

**And the dead will rise. **

October was calmly living the rest of its days, smiling at the blessed marches of Rivendell. The radiating boat of the Sun was gliding along the sky depth. Life was going on, though almost every living being had left this land.

But he was there, a flower in his hand, like he had been there each October for many a year before.

Touching the banisters of the bridge there where her palms touched it that day.

Listening to the purl of the waterfall like she did it then.

And each year he kissed the brought flower and put in on the ground where her blood was shed.

A hundred of flowers. A hundred of poor apologies.

She appeared in Rivendell from nowhere. The words "another world" were an empty sound for him. So, she appeared from nowhere with the ridiculous announcement, that all he had known before was just a fairy-tale story from a fairy-tale book. Moreover, that the end of this story was not a mystery for her. She wanted to part with the Fellowship, she said. She was to help, she said. And she doomed herself as she said that. She was too persuasive.

The wisest decided that there was no place for her in the fate of the Middle Earth. That she was dangerous. Her single interference seemed to them more fatal than all the obstacles put by Sauron and his stooges.

The wisest were not to be fought against. And no one did fight them. Probably because no one knew, that her death was something more than a deplorable fortuity. Those who had managed to get to know her mourned over it, but not too long. There were enough of things to bewail in their past, present and future.

The path was traveled, the war was over, and the world was safe again. Only Gwirith had stayed behind, lying in the soft earth of Rivendell, and the grass, which had grown on her grave, was hushfully singing lullabies for her sleeping soul.

Her wound didn't torture her.

And his was still burning with incessant pain, as an arrow-head, left in the gash and skinned over, remaining in his body forever.

It was not the pain of having lost love. Now, looking back, he understood that he probably never loved her. And if he did, the feeling didn't have time to absorb him fully. He was just overwhelmed with pity and regret, like if he was forced to tread on the bud, which promised to become a rare flower. This self-protecting thought was of comfort for him, though minor, yet still a chance not to be the monster he had named himself before. He wouldn't be poetized like the elf who killed his love because he was too weak to battle for her life.

He didn't kill his love.

But he couldn't think of himself like of the heroic saviour either. To stab the knife in the heart of the girl he was kissing was not heroic at all. It was mean and detestable. He was detestable.

He hadn't believed that Gwirith had told them the truth up to the day of Boromir's departure. He had been ready to accept even that she had been mad…a poor mad maiden obsessed by her folly.

Standing near the dead body of Gondor warrior for the first time he realized that all she had said hadn't been caused by the insanity. He remembered all the moments, when her smile got dim at the sight of Boromir, all the moments, when she escaped to share the warrior's company, as her eyes acquired a sparkle, which could be given only by unshed tears.

And when he was singing the farewell song to their perished fellow, only one thought plagued the elf's mind. One plea…"Take care of her there…Wherever go you, mortals… Take care of her…"

And the shadow of death over Boromir's solemn face looked so painfully similar to that over the sharpened features of Gwirith the day he saw her last that his soul was tearing apart with mute moans of endless sorrow…

"Take care of her…"

Everything else was devoured by the swirl of running, and fighting, and hanging on the edge of dark nothing. Only sometimes in the strained stillness of the night he winced at how much the pale starlight reminded of her skin, so smooth under his treacherous fingers. And the campfire flames seemed to mock at him, drawing her slender frame against the inky air.

All in the past.

It was time to go away just to return the next year and live through it again and again, helpless to change anything, but unable to let it go either.

Having looked up, the elf found out that the sky, so bright and limpid before, had got completely overcast. It seemed as if the day was coming to its end, though Legolas understood very well, that it couldn't have been more than two or three o'clock… He couldn't have spent here so much time, could he?

His heart missed a bit – he subconsciously pulled the edges of his cloak closer around him. His breath was coming out of his mouth in small white clouds.

The air got prickly and biting. The birds became silent. The sun withered.

Glacial tongues of the wind licked his ears, and he grew terrified, because its whispered speech was nothing but a constant reiteration of a creepy call from nowhere.

_Legolas…Legolas…Legolas… _

He backed away, driven by the natural desire to leave. But as soon as he approached his horse, the murmur swelled, getting almost unbearable.

_Legolas…Legolas…Legolas-s-s-s-save… _

Weightless voices subsided, as though their owners lent their ears to the one, who wistfully breathed out a terribly distinct word into the face of the stunned elf.

_Cold… _

The sound swept over the ground, reverberated in the air, crisp and wheezing… The flower on the bridge slowly blackened and fell into dust. Chill penetrated into Legolas's bones, into his brain…

_Cold… Why…So…Cold…Why…_

"Who are you?" cried he, looking around, because he began to recognize the voice. He hadn't heard it for an endless century, "Where are you?" whispered he, "Show yourself."

_Hurts-s-s-s-so cold…_

"Show up!"

Icy squall tore leaves off the moaning trees, swirling them in the small vortex, which was dancing at the banisters of the bridge. And then the leaves dropped, revealing a diaphanous figure of a pale girl in a green dress.

Legolas staggered. His hand grabbed the bridle of the stallion to keep him standing.

Her face was hidden by the hood. All he could see was a completely white mouth with a thin streak of dark clotted blood, coming down from its corner. And more blood stained the dress there, where the fabric was supposed to cover a beating heart.

Pallid lips moved, letting out another husky complaint…

_Slew…Why…_

"Gwirith," tears were flowing down his face, but he didn't wipe them away. His hands had grown so heavy, that he just couldn't raise them, "Please, forgive me…"

_Save…_

"If only I could."

_Save…_

The ghost held out its gauzy hand and beckoned him to come near. Unseeing, he obeyed, step by step getting closer… The smile transmuted the bloody streak on the girl's chin into a squiggly line. Her fingers were moving, inviting him to touch visibly stark skin…

_Come…_

His palm brushed against hers.

White and sharp teeth glistened between instantly reddened lips… The hood was blown off her head, and two rapacious hazelly deeps glared at him from under the whip-like eye-lashes. Legolas was deafened by the sinister laugh. At the same moment the ghost vanished, having spilt with dead leaves, from which it had appeared so unexpectedly and redoubtably. They blocked his path, whirling around him so fast that everything was dancing before his eyes. He rather felt than understood that his body was falling apart, turning into the flakes of ash, into nothing…

If that was to die, he had been an utter fool not to be afraid of it…

It was his last thought before the chasm closed down him and he ceased living.

* * *

_A/n: Reviews are welcome. :o) Stay with me._

_Yours, Adamanta._


	3. Ruins

_Disclaimer:_ I don't own anything from "Lord of the Rings".

_Author's note: _Practically no comments, except those to thank all who reviewed. :o)

**HyperSquishy:** I hope that this chapter won't lead you into a more complicated labyrinth, though I should confess it's quite possible. :o) Thank you for the compliment, it was very pleasant to read.

**Swasti:** I rather like the effect they produce. :o)

**ZELINIA: **What will happen to him? Hm-m, with what to begin… :o))) Just read and find out. (and don't forget about the next chapter to send. This one was interesting. And well-written)

**Name1:** Danke schön! ;o) (sorry if I have accent) :o)

**Ara** **Goddess of the Broken:** I'm glad that you settled on that opinion. :o) Thank you.

**Faerlas:** (bowing and trying to seem a humble girl) Thanks… I was doing my best… :o)

**Chapter 2.**

**Ruins.**

Light. Repulsively-crimson and heavy like rain of blood.

Smell. The worst smell for the elf – that of burning trees. Or rather of burnt ones.

He had no need to open his eyes – they were open. What surprised him was that he kept firmly standing on his feet, though if he were to give a conclusion of his last recollections, the reclining position would be more natural.

He took a deep breath to make sure that his body was still serving him. The outer frame appeared perfectly sound, not considering the slight tremble in relaxing muscles, as if he had made a long-distance run without halts. But having glanced round he realized that he didn't commit a single step. But time seemed to do it in his place, because every bit of his surrounding changed in a terrible manner, compelling him to think that he had missed several thousand years while day-dreaming.

He was standing at the very edge of the steep, formed by the crumbled bridge. No water was seen in the dried-up river-bed down his feet. The ground was crannied under the merciless rays of the red sun. The trees, rising up around the elf, lost their foliage, and now they were no more than thinned black trunks. Some of them had burnt down to the ground. They were dead – all of them – however hard Legolas tried to catch at least one breath of life in their motionless frames, nothing echoed in their veins anymore.

Something showed up white in what had once been the sparkling river. The elf bent forward only to start back again, his forehead getting covered with sweat and his eyes blazing in terror. There, blanched by rains and winds, picked by countless days and nights, lay thousands of bones. The channel was bestrewn with skeletons – those in the Elvish chain armors and dimmed helmets, and those of orcs - short and ugly even in their death. Thrown-back heads, thin fingers, wringing bows and swords, jaws, open in agony… Legolas shuddered and stepped back to realize that the same white remains were crushing into dust under his uncertain feet.

Horror and destruction reigned everywhere.

Rivendell – if it was Rivendell – lay in ruins.

Once rich chambers grinned with the fangs of blasted rocks. The carved windows blindly squinted at Legolas, like the eyes of a dying man, who failed to recognize his friend because of the death-pangs feasting upon his body.

The glance of the elf was racing from one terrible sign of demolish to another – he saw everything but couldn't accept it. A moment away he knew Rivendell as the abandoned, but flowering land – and yet now its blossom was out, leaving only abandonment. He seemed to hear cries and wheezes of pain over the immobile battle-field, he caught the sound of pouring blood and perceived the sufferings of pierced flesh. The shadows of the fallen clutched at his ankles, breathing out the last pleas for help.

He suddenly came to his senses as something else caught his eyes, something what he wished were not what it seemed to be. Slowly, against his own will the elf moved along a thin stone path, leading to the palace, and stopped as the objects of his staggered attention became clear enough to understand their nature.

Three marble tombs heaved up from the smooth lane in front of what had earlier been the majestic harbour of Rivendell sovereigns. Two of them – grey-marbled and waist-high – were crowned with two decumbent stone figures of fallen heroes – a man and an elf. A warrior and a king. At seeing their faces Legolas got certain that his reason had failed him – wise and serene image of Elrond and tired noble features of Aragorn were looking at him from the lineament of the statues.

And between these graves lay another and the most grievous one. It was lower than they and atop of it rose a sculpture of an elven maiden on bended knees, her streaming marble hair half-hiding a fair face, lined with sorrow. The gravestone in front of her bore a doleful inscription:

_Here lies Elrond Peredhil,_

_Aragorn son of Arathorn, _

_and_ _Arwen the Evenstar._

_The light of Rivendell died down_.

Before he let the epitaph sink into his thunderstruck mind, something moved behind him. A twig cracked under a clumsy step… Legolas turned round to notice the edge of a billowing cloak, disappearing between the trees. He darted after, not thinking that the one who was escaping could be dangerous for him. He wasn't afraid – all he had seen in the last half-an-hour blunted his perception. He desperately wanted to look into the eyes of a living man, and not into the empty orbits of skeletons. It took him several steps to run down the fleeting one and grab him by the shoulder, turning his lean body so that they appeared face to face with each other. The stranger lifted his arm, and though the impact never came, Legolas's cheek blazed up with sharp ache as if stung with a well-aimed slap. The elf winced but didn't let go, squeezing his fingers even tighter, if that was possible.

"Let me go," croaked the prisoner of his grasp, jerking to release himself, "Let me go! I don't want to see you, do you hear?"

At the sound of this voice – strained, yet unmistakably feminine - his fingers unclenched, suddenly week and languid. It was obvious that the stranger should run, but she just dropped on the ground, covering her face with her palms.

"Why did you return?" she forced out, her shoulders shaking with muffled sobs, "Why do you torture me?"

Her head went up – and once again Legolas had to suppress an exclamation of utter surprise, when his gaze fixed on the brown eyes, dimmed with tears.

"You?" whispered he with unbelief, but almost happily, "Gwirith, you are alive…"

His heart was beating so rapidly, that it made him pant. In the name of Eru, he was sorely mistaken, having let himself think he hadn't loved this wonder of a girl. He was so self-assertive to persuade himself he hadn't been losing his head at the mere sight of her. Now, seeing her bruised, dressed in rags, smearing dirt and tears over her cheeks, but still undoubtedly _alive_ was the greatest joy he could remember having experienced. The elf drew forward to touch her, to ascertain that she was not just a vision…

"Don't come closer," warned Gwirith, standing to her feet and staring at him with so much hostility that he felt a lump in his throat.

"_You are alive,"_ mocked she, her lips curved in disdain, "Thanks to you – yes, I am. Now get out unless you came to put an end to it, as you had always wanted. Enough of this derision."

"I don't understand you," he tried to reach out for her, "Gwirith, it's just me."

Gwirith sniffed and stepped back, nearer to the trees behind her.

"I see it perfectly well," snapped she, "But this time you won't get your way. Not at my expense. I hope you will die and decay here."

And with these words she hurriedly stole away, leaving him alone and astonished.


	4. A guiding star

_Disclaimer: _I don't own Legolas, Middle-Earth or something that is already owned by Tolkien. :o)

_Author's note: _Hugs to everyone who found a minute to send a review. You are the best. :o) I guess, this chapter should make clear some blank points. Enjoy it.

**HyperSquishy:** He will get used to it, I suppose. :o)

**ZELINIA: **I decided to try and save your manicure. :o) Here's the explanation. Thank you for your support.

**Faerlas:** Varendur, ser rili (rili ser?) ! I hope you like it. :o))

**Tatiana**: Wow! Thank you very much. :o) I really appreciate such compliments.

**Callisto Callispi: **I'm embarrassed, indeed. Never thought I deserve such praises. :o))) You've almost guessed about the Tenth Walker, btw. Only it's the Second walker in our case. :o)

**Name1:** Glad to hear that. :o) Let's move on?

**Chapter 3.**

"**A guiding star."**

He didn't know how many hours or days had passed. Nothing changed in the cursed corner – wherever he went there was the same red light and the same frozen image of death. He found no way out. Every path brought him to the three tombs in front of the silent palace. There was no day, there was no night. There was no stir of air. Even dust under his feet stayed at its place no matter if he walked calmly or ran, driven crazy with this sameness.

Everything ends, and there came the moment when he gave up. However strong the vitality of his people was in his body, it forsook him. He walked out into the light, sank down near the marble figure of Arwen and closed his eyes, relinquishing all his powers. He saw no point in continuing to fight for his life.

The memories of his past were dancing around him. He relived each of them anew, smiling… frowning… Little by little the bright pictures began to fade… Faces he had known, places he had seen, words he had spoken lost their significance. They came apart like a paper butterfly, fallen into the water. And he, a small elven boy, was crying over its downright wings, and his father was displeased, because he had escaped from the palace to make it fly…

Somebody was shaking his shoulders, trying to tear him away from the river and bring back into the four walls of his room, where for some reason Arwen stood petrified between the tombs of her beloved creatures. If one scrutinized her face, it would be obvious that the tears falling from her eyes were blood-red…

A pitiless hand slapped him once more. He moaned, ungluing his heavy eye-lids. And another slap came, making him wrinkle.

"That's enough," muttered he, having caught the wrist of the attacker.

"Fine," the voice was anxious, "Have a drink."

He swallowed the offered liquid and immediately snorted, spitting it out. It tasted ever worse than reeked.

"Don't like it?" Gwirith wanted to know, screwing up the lid of a shabby flask. She was sitting beside him, her face quite impassive, "Then there is nothing else I can help you with. Stand up."

And she easily sprang to her feet, as if the order she insonified was meant for her. Legolas gripped at the cold rock of the tomb with the intention to pull himself up, but his hands were trembling so violently that he had to let go, heavily falling back on the hard and unfriendly ground. Gwirith pursed her lips in obvious irritation at his sight. Her scorn stung him to the quick, and he repeated his attempt, though it was clear that he wouldn't manage it. This time he found no strength even to chin. Having failed to wait till he understood the vainness of his actions, the girl snorted and held out a hand, at which he gratefully grasped. Her face got a little softer – she leaned to him, letting his arms wind themselves round her neck and embracing him to give him support, while Legolas practically crawled up her body. He must have been too heavy for her, because her forehead grew spangled with drops of sweat, while her chest was heaving with certain difficulty. His pride didn't allow him to go on resting against a weak woman, therefore he pushed her away all but irritably.

"I can go on my own," said he, quite unsure of that.

"Go," agreed smiling Gwirith, "But may I ask where?"

The question confused Legolas, for he was certainly unprepared for her to understand him literally. But he decided to proceed in the same spirit, interested in where it could lead them.

"And where did you come from?"

"I surely wouldn't advise you to appear in there," it could have been a joke, if she wouldn't have sounded so dead serious.

"And where would you advise me to appear?" Legolas wanted to know, stepping closer. She strained, becoming steely.

"And where did you come from?" riposted she with the shift of the stress to "come".

"I thought you were going to help me."

He regretted his words as soon as they escaped his tongue, because she flinched and glanced away, her face awry with a sharp cramp. She blinked, and it seemed to him that something shined from under her eye-lids, but when she looked at him again, her eyes were dry and cold.

"Never ask me to help," said she distinctly, "Nobody knows what my help will bring you. Shun my aid while you can."

"And what if I cannot?" asked he. She dropped her head and sighed with the resignation of the defeated one.

"Woe is you, then," her hand slowly went up to his face to let her finger trace the line of his cracky lips, "And I regret that you hadn't died before I arrived."

With that statement she simply turned away, not even bothering to invite him to follow. Legolas hadn't had much choice but to shadow her, his capable legs soon having adapted to her swift pace. They walked in silence – once or twice she flung her eyes over him, yet they were so quick and cautious that he didn't manage to read whatever was written in the faintly glittering depth of her pupils. All he could guess about was that she was contemplating over some very unpleasant matter, and the conclusions she was coming to didn't bring her much satisfaction.

His head was still spinning slightly as a reminder of his getting over the border of life. Was he feeling sorry for not going further than that – he couldn't say it for sure. Not yet.

Instead of that his thoughts were insistently turning to Gwirith. Somehow he felt that she was the main link in the chain of events, which had occurred to him. He wasn't blinded by the joy of knowing she was alive anymore. Indeed it was a soothing awareness, but it just didn't seem … right. Not after his palms remembering the cold of the blade and the heat of her blood. Not after his taking in her final exhale and seeing the slow fall of her relaxed body. He didn't dream about that, or assuming that he did, he would have to suppose he had dreamt of everything that had followed her expire.

It was Gwirith who had led him into this kingdom of horror. He was driven by her call for help, by his own guilt… But _this_ Gwirith, unlike her ghostly double, didn't seek his protection and didn't reproach him for his deed. Yet she remembered him – he knew it for sure from the way her fingertips glided against his lips – gently, almost intimately. This touch rewarded him for her harsh wish of his death, it pitied him. But was it Gwirith who had touched him?

Her face didn't change much – Legolas had to admit it, though he was trying to find anything to prove he had mistaken his mindless hope for the reality. Her long eye-lashes curved the same way they had two centuries ago, and the eyes, shaded by them, had lost not a drop of their goldish brown colour. But something new admixed the purity of her stare, making it hard to bear it – something dark and merciless. And though she was still beautiful, which couldn't be repealed neither by the weariness, lurking in her movements, nor by countless stains of dirt and dust, about which she obviously didn't care; though his eyes were eager to feast upon her proud charm, she was not similar to the unfolding flower he had seen once. There were other words he chose to match her present state. Extinct flame, that's what he wanted to call her.

So who was it to have summoned him here?

And who was it to guide him through the ruins now?

"Gwirith," he carefully selected the most hushful tone. If she was not the one he had thought her to be, she wouldn't respond. The young woman stopped walking and looked back at the elf, her brows raised in a conventional motion of inquiry.

"Well?" prompted she, not having obtained the expected answer.

"Why has everything changed in here?" asked he, because he needed to ask at least something.

Gwirith tilted her head, making an uncomprehending face.

"Changed?" resounded she, "Nothing has changed in here for I don't remember how long."

"But this is Rivendell, isn't it?"

She looked around and nodded. The place was right, so Legolas shifted his doubts into the field, concerning time.

"When was the War over?" questioned he, for there was no other more or less reliable reference point. Having understood that he didn't intend to give up the interrogation, Gwirith leaned her back against the nearest trunk and sighed.

"Which one?" asked she in her turn. Tiredness inlaid her voice, infinite and hopeless tiredness…

"The Last One," offered he, being sure that she knew no other wars than the one he had just come through.

It was the mere moment she considered over his question, but when she answered, he felt even more puzzled, contrary to all his expectations.

"Three days ago."

"Three days ago?"

The war of the Rings finished three days ago? Then where did a hundred of years got to? He shook his head. Impossible. It was not the world he remembered seeing three days after the Ring sank into the hungry jaws of Orodruin.

"Well, yes. Uruk-hai are trying to divide Gondor. Orc's squabble."

The horrible words left her mouth so easily… So nonchalantly… It seemed that she didn't care about the devastation around her.

Little by little he began to realize what had happened. To realize, not to believe…

"The War of the Rings was lost, wasn't it?" said he quietly.

The girl answered with a slight movement of her eye-lashes.

"And … your race?"

She laughed bitterly and derisively, her teeth glistening between her parched lips.

"Dead," stated she roughly, "all those who hadn't yielded to the Dark Lord died in pain. And those who are alive now wish they had joined them. As well as your race. Only creatures such as you were more persistent in their likings, as you can observe."

Legolas dropped his head. It felt so odd – he knew he had to be ruthful, or furious, or crashed with all this. But there was nothing except loneliness. He didn't even want to continue this series of inquiries – he had heard quite enough. Had Gwirith behaved in some other way – had she cried a single tear or evinced a single sign of compassion - and he might have broken and let the misery overwhelm him. But her indifference, diluted with a fair part of sardonic jest, somehow kept him on the surface.

"Don't you pity them?" but from the look in her eyes he understood that she didn't.

"I pity you," responded she simply, "So I suggest that you should go with me as fast as you can. Because the last elf I saw here was flayed. Alive."

"Then what's the use in my going anywhere?" slowly asked the elf, looking into the hard hazel eyes of the monster, who wore the body of Gwirith, "I don't want to experience the sorrow of being the last of my people. I don't want to hide."

She drew herself up, clenching her teeth with ire, which suddenly revealed itself in every line of her face.

"Are you so slow that you have failed to understand it all yet?" uttered she in a dangerously low voice, "It's not the Middle Earth you belong to. I have no idea how you got here, and I don't want to know it. But what I know is that somewhere there is your world and seeing you so astonished by the sight of this one, I conclude that you _won_ the War. And I'd be glad if you returned there. Or do you prefer to stay and share this fate with us?"

Her zeal was so unexpected in comparison with the previous display of impassivity, that he got lost and chose it best to shake his head in denial.

"Then follow me, and I shall try to lead you out of here," she nodded in the direction of what had been the evergreen garden of Rivendell.

"Do you know how to do it?" surrendered Legolas, because he hadn't any visible alternative.

Another derisive smile quirked the corned of her mouth up, but this time it had a hint of cold and heavy triumph, though he couldn't perceive the cause of her sour elation.

"Oh, yes," purred she, "I believe I do."

* * *

_A/n: That's that, my friends. :o) If there's anything you want to say – I'm ready to read it. :o)_

_Waiting for your comments,_

_Adamanta._


	5. Forward

**Disclaimer: **I don't remember whether I had told you I don't own "Lord of the Rings". Supposedly, I did. :o)

**Author's note: 1) **To prevent the objections – the trick with a bow against the chest works. I checked it, otherwise I wouldn't have inserted it into the story. You'll see what I mean later. :o)

**2)** Thanks everyone who took pains to review. :o) I appreciate your support.

**ZELINIA: **A smart girl. :o))) A very smart girl.

**Faerlas: **Congratulations on the occasion of having finished the exams. :o) I'm green with envy. Missed you, my friend.

**Name1:** Thank you. :o) I shall try not to disappoint you.

And unfortunately, one of the reviewers was **Anonymous, **yet thanks anyway. I suppose it would be nice if I knew your name, since I guess it's not very polite of me to address to you this way, but if you are against I'll have to resign myself to it. The first two questions are skin-deeply highlighted in the first two chapters. I cannot lay my cards on the table fully right now. As for the other inquiries – you are too impatient. :o))) Though I really liked your question about the "alive" point. Everything will be explained. Not in this chapter, perhaps, but you may ask those who had read my "Blackthorn" and they will tell you that I never leave blank spots in my stories. :o))

Enjoy and review. :o) Love all.

**Chapter 4.**

**Forward.**

They almost bypassed the ill-fated bridge, which aroused so many memories, when Gwirith suddenly came to a halt and muttered something harsh under her breath. He preferred not to make out what exactly it was.

"I have quite forgotten," said she, turning to him, "You need some weapon to protect yourself."

"If you say so," he was still uneager to enter into any conversations.

He avoided talking to her lest she should demonstrate something which could make him feel stronger odium to her cynical statements than he already felt. He didn't want to quarrel with her – in the deepest corner of his heart there remained some leavings of the hope, that she was the Gwirith he had lost here, and had found again. Then her coldness could be fair. Then he could accept it and bow his head before her, begging for forgiveness. And could resign if she refused to pardon him. But the more he watched her, the more he craved to turn back and leave everything as it is. He didn't want to remember her this way. He didn't want to forget the pure image of an innocent beauty, he kept in his mind and soul for all these years, in favour of this tanned face, this scornful mouth and this heavy, evaluating, piercing stare. Each time she looked at him, he felt his skin burn and bleed there, where lingered her eyes.

She unbuttoned her crude leathern vest and drew out a skein of rope. For a moment she was gazing at it, biting her lip in doubts. Having cast a pensive glance at Legolas, Gwirith frowned with even greater hesitation.

"Lift me up," ordered she suddenly. At seeing his surprise she added brusquely and irritably, "I need to come down there. And if you think that I'll entrust to you my life without making sure that you are able to hold the rope with me hanging on it, you are mistaken."

"I'd hold three people as light as you are!" her contemptuous assumptions infuriated him. He unexpectedly felt an intense desire to hurt her. To break her to prove that he wouldn't be treated as a feeble mortal, whoever she might be. In one step he approached the girl and raised her on the stretched-out arms, squeezing her sides so tightly that she gave a constrained squeal.

"My ribs…"

Having immediately collected himself at this weak sound, he carefully restored her to the ground, feeling ashamed for his indecent outburst. Her hand rushed up to nurse the injured side, but she never touched it, instead of that tucking her hair behind her ear. He saw that it was nothing more than an awkward gesture of the one, trying to keep a straight face, and got even sorrier to have done her harm.

"Forgive me," said he uneasily, "I shouldn't have…"

"I do not blame you," interrupted Gwirith, as something smile-like showed itself upon her lips. She leaned to pick up the dropped skein and began to unreel it, avoiding looking into his eyes, "I suppose I deserved that. Just hold the rope, all right?"

Legolas accepted the soft elvish cord, which seemed to have wound around his hand without any interference of his. By the time he had checked the security of the knot and the solidity of the rope itself, Gwirith had already tied it round her waist and now patiently stood aside, waiting for him to finish his examination.

"Ready?" asked she, moving to the gap, which broke the bridge in two.

The elf nodded, his heels instinctively digging themselves in the ground to ensure the firm stand. For a second she inspected him, as if wrestling with herself, but this moment was fleeting. In a heartbeat she disappeared behind the brink, and only the tension of the rope, which had cut deep into his palm, indicated that she was still there.

Soon the rope loosened – he heard Gwirith walk beneath the bridge. Her thin soles rustled against the dry ground – the intervals between these sounds were irregular, and he guessed that she had to overstep the bodies, which he had seen lying down there. Once or twice she mumbled something incomprehensible, hushed words followed by the aggravated clinking of metal. After several eternal minutes she gave a satisfied exclamation and he felt the rope stretch again, this time strongly enough to cause small drops of blood exude out of his palm and soak into the sleek fabric. Jerks came one after another, while he regardless of the pain in his hand was slowly stepping back to help the climbing girl up. At last her face emerged out of the gap. She threw a hand over the edge, and Legolas saw that it clutched a long dagger, stained with dark dry spots. Over her shoulder hung a quiver, full of arrows of different size, and a heavy war-bow neighbored it, almost brushing against her ear.

"I thought you will cut me in two," stated Gwirith breathlessly, having dropped her load onto the ground and untying the rope. Legolas lowered his hand as carelessly as he could lest she should notice a fresh cut on his palm.

"There's no need to be a hero, you know," smirked the girl, as the rope returned to its proper place behind her vest, "In any case there's nothing I could have done to help you with your scratch. I wouldn't even ask."

"How did you…," began the elf, but his question was cut off by her mocking laughter.

"The rope," explained she, "it's wet. I'm not bleeding, so it's only you who could be hurt. Look at the weapon, please. I guess it should suit you."

He picked up the bow and drew it, testing the tightness of the string. It twanged thinly, making a small smile cross his lips. It was a perfect bow – Gwirith evidently had an eye for such things. The arrows, however, disappointed Legolas.

"They are too different," muttered he discontentedly, "And those ones are meant for arbalests, not for bows."

Gwirith snorted, shrugging her shoulders.

"It was not me to have chosen weapon for them," said she, pointing at the skeletons beneath, "Or I would have certainly asked them to use something equal."

At the very moment Legolas's attention was arrested by odd scratches at one of the arrows. He had scarcely brought it closer to his eyes when his fine face took an expression of disgust and he cast the arrow away, looking as it he was going to spit.

"You don't say that you took those ones out of their bodies, do you?" his voice was strained with repugnance and indignation.

"And where else do you suggest I should take them?" wondered Gwirith innocently, "They don't mind, I assure you. Most of them haven't had bodies for a long time."

"Do you not respect the fallen?" his elven nature rioted against the act of obvious and deliberate looting.

"I do not respect even myself," responded she with slight frost, "What can one expect from me after that?"

Without further words she turned away and seemed to stiffen, staring into nowhere. He hesitated, waiting for her to do something, but she never moved, as if he had stopped being of interest for her.

"Gwirith, are you going?" he guardedly touched her shoulder, unsure of her having heard him.

"And you?" her tone was impassive, and she didn't take her eyes off the crimson line of the horizon.

"I suppose I have no choice," said Legolas half-questioningly. She chuckled, yet no mirth was there in her grin.

"A wise observation. Collect the arrows - you might need them."

This time he didn't protest. When all the arrows appeared in the quiver, and he was going to hang it over his shoulder, the girl suddenly woke up, shaking her head.

"Wait," asked she, "Can you put it on so that it would lie on you chest, not on your back?"

"Why?" the elf got sincerely surprised, "I won't be able to shoot."

"You cannot go through this land as an elf," explained Gwirith patiently, handling him the cloak, which she had also brought from the battle-field, "Try to hide the weapon under this."

The sight of the cloak left no doubts about the race of the craftsmen who had sewn it, so the precautions of Gwirith sounded funny. She caught his skeptical glance, and her lips turned into a thin stroke.

"With plenty of marauders like me in here you don't have to be an elf to wear an elvish cloak," dropped she archly.

In her statement he made out the notes of resentment. Not to aggravate it more than he had already done, he silently placed the quiver and even the bow against his chest, put the dagger in his belt and habitually wrapped himself in warm and flowing fabric. Gwirith watched him, her eyes half-narrowed. When he finished the preparations, she reached out to pull the hood over his face.

"You are too tall," concluded she with certain displeasure. Legolas obediently bent lower, stooping his shoulders as much as the weapon allowed him. The girl observed the picture he made up – her eyes flashed and she approached the nearest tree to break off a straight branch, which she handed out for him.

"That's better," said she approvingly, when he rested against it like a tired old man against his staff.

The elf wistfully considered that by the moment their journey would be over he would be as crooked as a mortal of ninety or so, because his neck and his back were slowly but inevitably getting numb.

"I guess that is all," commented mockingly-upright Gwirith, "Come on, … grandpa."

* * *

A/n: _Sorry if there are any mistakes – Two o'clock_ _in the morning do not dispose to checking over spelling and grammar. I just looked it through. :o)_

_I may be late with the next chapter – the term paper is left behind with an excellent mark, but there are still exams to take. Good luck to you all._

_Adamanta._


	6. Deep they delved us

**Disclaimer: **See the previous chapters. The phrases _Much evil must befall a country before it wholly forgets the Elves, if once they dwelt there… _and "… _deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they builded us; but they are gone_," belong to Tolkien from the first to the last word.

**Author's note: **My best regards to **Faerlas** and **Name1**. :o)

**Chapter 5.**

_**Deep they delved us…**_

"Where are we heading to?"

Gwirith barely turned her head and tacitly pointed straight in front of her. That was the answer he had hooked out of her thrice, no matter what the form of his question was. And though it was hardly possible to receive a more exact response, which Legolas had already admitted after the first two attempts, this time he was determined not to give up as easily.

"And where are we now?" asked he, having waited for some minutes.

"I thought the Elves to be more skilled in scouting," said Gwirith blankly, "We are in two days of travelling from Hollin, if it can help you somehow."

"So we are going there," stated Legolas musingly, "Are we?"

"More or less…"

And it also was a habit of hers, which frustrated him to no end – when demanded of a definite explanation she gave the most inappropriate reply, making it unfeasible to continue the conversation in the same course. More or less! More or less what? It was as impossible to be "more or less going" as to be going "more or less to Hollin". And should he try to point it out for her, she would begin playing with words without break, till they all lost their sense and became as worthless as a handful of dry fish-scales.

Quite irritated, he stopped and straightened himself, his bones loudly cracking in the silence.

"Are you tired?" immediately reacted Gwirith, "Shall we halt here?"

"We shall," nodded he, ignoring the first question.

The girl looked around, and then pointed at several scattered stones to their left.

"Just don't take off the hood," warned she, when they settled right on the ground: he – resting his tired back against one of the rocks, she – smoothly stretching herself and rubbing her shoulders to drive away cold and fatigue.

The nascent night was slowly pouring chilly darkness over the hills, and slaty-coloured fog glided down their slopes, drooping in the shallow hollows. The companions were sitting quietly, as every minute brought forth the thicker dusk than the previous one had delivered, till Gwirith stirred to take out her flask and offer it to Legolas. He carefully drunk some of the stinky liquid, having absentmindedly noted that there was not much of it left. There was no food either – yesterday they shared the last cracker of those twelve ones, his guide had to herself when they quitted Rivendell. No animals had he seen to chase after, no birds to shoot, no berries to appease their hunger, for they definitely hungered. All they had was this flask, and now even its unappealing contents was running out.

For the first few days they didn't make any stops, except those short halts to eat or drink, which happened rarely. He got tired rather quickly, because his bent back protested against each movement and revenged itself with dull ache or stark rigor. At first the staff in his hand was more of a hindrance than a help – but little by little he leaned against it more and more heavily. He was too proud to complain or ask for a respite, yet soon Gwirith began to notice his troubles and suggest stops by herself, delivering him from the humiliation.

What surprised him was that they didn't hide – though he had a poor notion of what they should hide from. He tried to lead Gwirith away from open places, where they were in full view, yet she just dismissed him with a slight wave of her hand.

During their short moments of rest she wouldn't sleep. He argued with her, persuaded her that she needed repose, promised that he would wake her up should something went wrong – it was of little help. Sometimes she allowed him to win and lay for an hour or so with her eyes open, so that his vigil became senseless. And if she closed them, her breathing never turned into that calm, measured sound, one could hear coming from a sleeping person. After the hour passed she sat up and there was nothing left for him but to try and sleep in his turn. Each time he woke up, she remained in the same sitting position, with her eyes lowered and estranged.

Yet he could never get rid of the sensation that she was watching him, while he was asleep.

Gwirith slowly screwed up the flask without taking a single sip.

"Have some sleep," said she almost softly, "We shall not stop from now on."

"Are we going to Hollin?" asked he once more, quite hopelessly, but this time she conceded to answer.

"So far – yes."

"And what is it there now?" his eye-lids were filling with heaviness, and he closed his eyes to let them rest.

"A human settlement," he heard her shift, making herself comfortable between two low stones, "we need some food. Be careful there, it's full of orcs. I don't want them to find out who you are."

Orcs sauntered through Hollin, Rivendell was destroyed… Dreadful world she lived in. As Legolas was slowly diving into a deep sleep, a familiar voice was ringing in his head, over and over repeating the words he seemed to have heard lives ago in the place they were making for now. _Much evil must befall a country before it wholly forgets the Elves, if once they dwelt there… _And indeed, much evil had befallen this country…

As if answering his thoughts, Gwirith whispered the phrase, which made him wake up immediately and stare at her in amazement, because this phrase had once escaped his own lips:

"… _deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they builded us; but they are gone_," her glance was chained to something in the air, and for the first time he saw pain and sadness rip through it, "They are gone," muttered she hoarsely, "Gone."

"Gwirith," called the elf, frightened by the fierce bitterness, overfilling each sound she uttered. She gave a start, looking at him as if it was the first time she saw him. Then her face relaxed, the image of composure dawning upon it again.

"What were you saying?" inquired Legolas quietly.

His companion turned away, not a stir of a muscle betraying the burst of feelings he had just witnessed.

"Nothing," responded she, "nothing of what should worry you."

With that she settled her folded arms against her knees and sank into meditation again. In such moments he felt as if he was alone, because though her body stayed by him, her mind was travelling so far that he knew she wouldn't come back at once, even if he cried out for her.

He began to get used to the thought that he wouldn't hear anything more from her today, when she suddenly broke the silence, reigning between them.

"What happened to me in your world?"

It was his turn to flinch, her question having caught him off-guard.

"You knew me," continued Gwirith insistently, "You said my name. So there was someone like me in you world. What happened to her?"

"She died," Legolas closed his eyes again, for fear that she would notice unbidden moisture under his eye-lashes.

"How?" her voice sounded cruelly and harshly. The elf swallowed, vivid pictures of that October day flashing in his mind.

"She was murdered," whispered he ruefully.

Gwirith took a long breath and set her forehead against her arms.

"Rest in peace," muttered she softly, "And Eru bless that hand."

"What?" asked Legolas, but she interrupted him with another question.

"Who did it?"

The elf clenched his teeth. Why was she torturing him? And he could answer the truth, and he could utter one word of verity, but his tongue refused to obey him.

"He died, too," said he, dropping his head.

"I pity him," the girl turned her head to look at Legolas, her lips bent with a grieved smile, "I hope he didn't suffer."

"Would you forgive him?" he froze in expectance of the verdict, and his heart was beating slowly and painfully inside his chest.

"I would," nodded Gwirith sincerely, "And if she were really me, she would, too."

The darkness mercifully hid a sole tear, coursing down his cheek…

"Have some sleep," repeated the girl in whispers, "I'll be on guard."

Falling asleep he managed to think that he had probably never seen a more doleful image than the one that made up her arms, wound around her knees in a gesture of self-protection and unavailing soothing.


	7. Stares and glances

**Disclaimer: **Don't own it.

**Faerlas: **I warned that it could happen this way. :o))) Weak-willed, as I said. Much hugs to you, ser rili.:o))

**Name1:o)) **Do you think it's time for it to keep some diet?

**Escape5:**Hi! It's awfully nice to hear from you again. I'm glad that you like it – and thank you for spending your time and reviewing it – it was most encouraging. :o)

**Chapter 6.**

_**Stares and glances. **_

Hard colourless eyes slid up the high boots of Gwirith, felt all over her body and at last settled on her face.

"Does my fair lady want anything?" slowly and over-freely inquired a stout middle-aged man at the door of a ramshackle building, out of which came ceaseless din and drunken outcries.

Legolas felt his fingers clench over the staff, like over the neck of this untidy mortal, who dared address to Gwirith with such heavy and obscene intonation. But the girl definitely did without his protection, because she just smiled – proudly and arrogantly - and met the evaluating stare, the glint in her eyes displaying equally base challenge.

"Your fair lady wants to take refuge for several days," said she haughtily, "For our travel was a long one, and a longer road lies in front of us."

"I'm willing to serve you," bowed the man, never breaking the contest of looks between them, "If my service is well-rewarded… And … does my lord have anything special to demand?"

The elf had already opened his mouth to put the man in his proper place, when Gwirith, for all this time holding her arm linked with his, thrust her sharp nails into his shoulder. He bit his lip, having remembered that he was not to utter a single word, as elvish voices were hard to confuse with those of some other beings.

"My grandfather is tired and needs rest," calmly told Gwirith to the host of the dirty den, they were going to stay in, "As any man of his age…"

It couldn't elude Legolas how heavily she accented the word "man", and it seemed to him that she was too obvious in underlining his origin instead of concealing it. But the host remained perfectly calm and civil, especially as the girl drew out of nowhere a full hand of bright golden coins. Shuddering of sharp disgust Legolas imagined where they could come from. The easiness, with which Gwirith had earlier robbed the dead in Rivendell of their weapon, didn't speak in her favour as to the source of this money.

"For a man of your age you are well-preserved, milord, if you allow me to say this," muttered the man thoughtfully, fixing his eyes at the bare hand of the elf, which was holding the staff. The girl gave a scornful laugh and took out another helping of coins.

"Fresh air works wonders," explained she in the most serious tone, playing with the money, while the host was greedily watching her movements.

"As you say, my lavish lady, as you say," he bowed again, counting and recounting coins, which had appeared in his possession, "Two rooms, right?"

"No," she smiled with her upper lip only, so that her smirk looked like bared teeth, "One room and nobody to bother us."

The host, hunched-up in exaggerated servility, stepped back to let them into the low doorway. Gwirith gently pushed the elf forward, supporting his elbow. For the outsider they appeared what they pretended to be – an old man and his caring, respectful granddaughter. He felt a reassuring squeeze of her fingers, and bent even more, trying to limp so that his steps were not so long and even.

The somber hall was full of people, some already lying with their faces against their tables and snoring so diligently that the noise they were producing reminded of a roar of a distant battle. The others were slowly approaching the same state. The only woman in the room was standing at the bar – an old malign hag, having seen more than most and hating everything and everybody. Grudge was oozing out of the sharp wrinkles on her round face, and the movements of her rough tanned hands, which with a furious perseverance were drying a mug, betrayed deep-rooted, barely pent-up irritation. For a moment she halted, studying the visitors, but instantly returned to her monotonous work. Only the mean lines in the corners of her small and thin mouth deepened, as if she had seen something offensive for her. And Legolas couldn't say he didn't understand the reasons of her anger.

As Gwirith crossed the threshold, all the sounds except incessant snore ceased. Men turned their heads to follow her path with avid attention. Dozens of hungry stares plastered her silhouette like wet weeds. Like slime. The elf saw their lips part and get dry, as some furtively ran their tongues over them, never taking their eyes of his companion. He could hear every heavy breath of thirst and lust, flowing into the stuffy air of the hall. His spine strained, and he guardedly wrapped his fingers around the gripe of his dagger. He was almost sick of aversion at those craving stares… He could read the thoughts of each of the beasts in there – they all wanted to… He found no other word but "to taste" Gwirith, to swallow her…

However, there was one man, who didn't look at her. Instead of that he was insistently scrutinizing the elf. The shoulders of the curious one were covered with the same kind of a cloak, Legolas was hiding under, but unlike the elf, he showed his face proudly and boldly. He must have had a drop of the elvish blood, yet this dash was so insignificant that it resulted in nothing but seeming nobility of his features. His richly-lashed eye-lids drooped over two glittering black coals in a weary fashion, and thin aristocratic fingers were lightly tapping against the table… Elves always felt creatures of their kind. Legolas was almost sure, that however great number of generations passed from the moment one of the ancestors of this half-bred had entered into a marriage alliance with a firstling of Eru, it still wasn't great enough to obliterate the recognition instinct.

The stranger broke his examination and chuckled – Legolas didn't like this chuckle at all. It didn't bode well… But to his surprise, the annoying man just bowed his head to Gwirith as to an old acquaintance – and got a short nod in return.

The elf was observant enough to notice what impression this exchange produced on the others. Quickly – even, as it seemed to him, hurriedly - they lost every bit of their interest for the girl, and hid their faces in their mugs, talking too loudly and lively. The stranger chuckled again, with disdain not inferior to that Legolas used to hear in the voice of Gwirith.

"This way, milady," the host pointed at the rickety stairs, leading to something that was hard to call the first floor. It reminded more of a deserted attic, pitted with doors, each hiding a small cell-like room.

"I wish you good rest," mumbled their escort and excused himself. And only as the door closed behind him, Legolas managed to get rid of the feeling of having been watched after for all this time by two spots of tar on a pale face.

The room was not large enough even for him alone. A low bed, covered with a threadbare wolfskin, occupied the fair part of space. A single weak-sighted window drew a square of faint light on the wall opposite to it. Gwirith resolutely strolled forward and banged the shutters, causing a cloud of dust soar into the air.

"You may lie down," said she impassively, "I'll be back soon."

Legolas jerked up his head, as the girl moved back to the door.

"Where are you going?" asked he, surprise ringing in his voice.

"We need something to eat," explained Gwirith simply, "I'm hungry and I don't believe that you are not."

"You won't go there alone," quickly objected the elf. He couldn't let her go. Not after he had witnessed the clear expression of longings she had aroused in those wretched resemblances of men.

Gwirith raised her brows, and something looking like sincere amusement showed through her reserved countenance, soon changing into a smile – a true small smile. Not that she was smiling at him – but somehow he sensed that he had a certain relation with the thoughts that caused this catchlight of pleasure on her lips.

"Don't worry," reassured she softly, coming out of the room, "I can take care of myself."

The elf heard her descending the stairs, each step followed by a little creak of dry wood. No doubt, it would have been wiser of him if he had lain as she had advised him, but he stayed by the door, trying to discern her voice in the hubbub, wafted from the hall. His muscles were still tense with the sensation of keen danger. In vain was Legolas persuading himself that he could get down any moment, should his hearing be disturbed by a mere sound of her being in need of his help. Deep down he realized there was not much he could help her with. They were both trapped in here.

He pressed his ear against the door and froze so, counting seconds. A thousand of breaths later the same light feet ran up the stairs… He barely managed to dart back, jumping on the bed and assuming an indifferent air, as if there had been no anxious waiting and awe-inspiring suppositions, one darker than another.

"It's for you," Gwirith put a deep bowl with chunks of fried meat on the wolfskin beside him, "The host had a fit of generosity."

His mouth involuntary watered at the sight of food, and his empty stomach shrank, reminding him about almost three days of starvation, but he pushed the bowl away, closer to the girl.

"You don't expect I shall spoon-feed you, do you?" asked she, pushing it back.

"Aren't I worthy of your sharing a meal with me?" retorted his wounded pride before he had sealed his lips not to let it have its say. Gwirith narrowed her eyes. An evil smirk of hers made the elf wince, while she graciously stepped back and bowed down before him in a most respectful curtsey.

"On the contrary, your elven highness," murmured she silkily, "you are too worthy to dine with me. I prefer to share the modest company of the despicable mortals downstairs."

"Gwirith…"

But she was already behind the door again. Legolas banged an angry fist against the bed-cover, furious at her mockery. What was there so wrong about his words? Will she ever behave at least civilly? A stupid girl she was to have gone there, right into the jaws of the dragon. Be it then, if that was what she wanted. He cared only about her leading him out of this insane parody on Middle-Earth. There were no reasons for him to be so darn troubled about her well-being, leave alone her chastity which he doubted was still on her person.

Another peal of roar from the ground-floor scratched his heart, making him ashamed of what he had just thought. Indeed, this place seemed created to deprave.

Quite reluctantly Legolas drew a piece of meat out of the bowl, but his attempt to eat was unsuccessful. Plagued by rage and unrest, he didn't even notice the taste of what he was swallowing. He put the bowl aside and stood up to approach the door again. Male voices were laughing and cracking rough jokes. Not a single metallic note of Gwirith's distinguished itself on their background. The elf couldn't say if he should be soothed or alarmed by it. She didn't have any need of talking to those beasts, did she? He desperately hoped she knew was she was doing.

Minutes flew past, while his alarm was getting more and more intolerable. She could have already eaten an orc together with his outfit and weapon…

Having wavered for some more time, the elf decided that it was quite enough of him. He pulled the hood of the cloak over his face, bent his back habitually and stole out of the room. The small landing, from which the stairs were going down, was an ideal observation point to allow him watching the hall without being noticed. Gwirith was nowhere to be seen – something sharp turned over inside him at realizing it. For a second he almost ran down in search of her, but at the very moment caught his breath of relief, for she was there, sitting in the furthest corner over a steaming mug. Yet soon Legolas frowned, his joy turning into suspicion, because his companion shared the table with that elf-born stranger with cruel black pools instead of the eyes. The lips of Gwirith were moving, and the man seemed to be listening to her attentively, nodding each time she stopped to take a sip out of her cup. What struck Legolas was how close they were to each other… Her sleeve brushed against the shoulder of the stranger. The latter smiled a heavy smile, and slowly let his hand slip over hers, as he leaned in to whisper something in her ear, his thin contemptuous mouth overpassing it in favour of ghosting against the smooth skin dangerously close to the corner of her lips. Legolas gripped the hand-rail so violently that his knuckles became white. As though having felt his presence, Gwirith leisurely looked back…

She was pale as the marble statue, crowning the tomb of Arwen. It seemed that every drop of blood had dripped out of her body. Their gazes interlaced and he saw that her opened-wide eyes were smoldering with the dark, cross fire, but her face remained calm as ever, if not calmer. Her usual composure had always had a tint of concentration and inner strain, which it lacked this time, as if she had cast aside her troubles. Legolas was keen enough to comprehend that this change had occurred due to the black-eyed man beside her.

She gave the elf a hard look, in which he clearly read two words… _Get out…_ No irritation she showed, no discontent by his violation of her advice. Just a tranquil direct order for him to burrow and keep away from her affairs.

Legolas took several steps back, with a feeling of fleeting away from the battlefield. The girl blinked – slowly, like a snake trying to keep its victim in the chains of its deadly glance. Her eyelashes touched with only their tips, never closing down the eyes. He hesitated, having ceased understanding what she wanted from him. It was as if she commanded him to run away after having ensnared him. As if she was waiting for him to obey and thus strangle himself with a lasso he felt tighten around his neck.

And then she just smirked – cruelly and crookedly – and unleashed him, turning away.

The elf didn't dare risk once more, particularly because his frozen vigil began to attract too much attention from the occupants of the hall. Shaking with uncontrollable anger, he retreated back to their room.

Whelp! Slip of a girl! He was tossing in four walls, his fists clenched, his teeth gritted. He had no idea why she was plunging him in such wrath. There was nothing insulting in her behaviour, nothing to cause the waves of rage, cutting through his whole body. Blindfolding him… Driving him insane.

Her austere face was still standing before his eyes. He still saw her glance, repelling and luring… In a harsh glimpse of a guess he realized the meaning of it – on some unexplainable ground she had concluded that she had power over him, and demonstrated it as soon as he endeavored to show disobedience. And what crushed him was that he had yielded, proving her right.

All of a sudden another image came to his mind, overshadowing the lingering echo of the girl's stare… The same hazelly glance, lucid with care and warmth… The same hand, gently slipping against his shoulder… The same lips, half-parted just a moment before he…

He dropped on the bed, running his fingers through his hair and closing his eyes tight to drive away the painful recollection. He had forbidden himself to remember it. He had chased away all the details, making himself look at it from the outside. And there she came to bring it all back. To revive the feeling of a lithe body in his arms and the taste of soft lips against his own… All the dreams, all the longings, all the nights of off-stage tears and regrets. All of that pain.

And all of that desire…

It was murderous to see the lips of the stranger so close to her longed-for mouth, seeming eager to erase the shadow of his first and last kiss. And though he knew that had Gwirith survived after his foul deed, he would have never had another chance to kiss her; though he felt that he had no right to be jealous even of his dead love, leave alone her living twin, there was nothing he could do with black desperation, not letting him breathe or think…

How dare she profane the one he had once been ready to die for…

How dare he accuse her - he, her murderer…

He was at bay. He was lost.

The door suddenly opened to let in silent and pallid Gwirith. For a second she was just looking at him, as though trying to recall who he was and what he was doing there. Then she blinked, the movements of her eye-lids hardly reminding of the laggard slash-like flap, which had pinned him down to the ground so few and so many minutes ago.

"What's the matter with you?" her voice was hoarse and strained, "Are you unwell?"

Later he failed to recollect how it had happened, but then before he knew it she was nailed against the door, with his fingers clutched around her white throat, and his wry face almost pressed against hers.

"Who was that?" seethed Legolas, with bitter satisfaction seeing her give a start. His left hand came up to her shoulder, and he shook her, so that she gasped for breath, "Who was he!"

"I don't know!" squeaked she faintly, "What has come over you?"

"Who was he?" repeated the elf stubbornly, "Answer!"

Gwirith managed to unclench his grasp with her both hands and darted away, but the elf caught her wrist, pulling her to his body again.

"I don't know his name," said she, despair written in the lines of her discoloured face, "He helps me sometimes – that is all!"

"In exchange for what?" spit out Legolas, being sure that he had guessed shrewdly. His head was spinning of disgust, heavily inlaid with disappointment.

Her brows came together, as she caught the meaning of his insinuation. It seemed to Legolas, that she was going to slap him, yet she just shrank back as if having casually touched a dirty puddle.

"Let me go," whispered she bitterly, "You are repulsive."

"As if you are not," smirked Legolas, not recognizing himself and not able to suppress this madness, "Sneaking around, robbing the graves, throwing yourself at the first comer."

"I'm not throwing myself at anyone!" snapped Gwirith with blazing fury. He uttered a short laugh:

"So you don't deny the other things?"

She turned away, rubbing her temples and breathing heavily.

"I'm not robbing the graves," said she more calmly than he could expect, judging by her looks, "I need to live somehow. The war had blotted out everything…A hundred of years, Legolas, by Eru!"

He flinched with unbelief, when her words sank into his brain. So the time in here coincided with the one, passing now somewhere in his home. And still the girl in front of him was scarcely older than his mourned-over Gwirith. How was it possible? How did a mortal being age not a day in a number of years, deadly to any of her kind?

"How old are you?" asked he slowly and dangerously. She swallowed, nervously biting her lips, her eyes pleading.

"How did you manage to last so much time?" whispered the elf distinctly, "Who are you?"

Gwirith lowered her gaze, something much like a sob escaping her throat…

"I'm an utter curse, Legolas," answered she in such a quiet voice that he barely made out her words, "And, believe me, if only I could die, I'd die."

Legolas was short of respond. There just wasn't anything to say – so great was the sadness and self-disdain in that statement. To conceal his improper confusion, he averted his eyes, letting them trace a thin ray of light, which was crawling up the bare wall. Something flew past the window, and the beam disappeared, having pitifully winked in the end.

"I don't even know where you are guiding me," muttered the elf less belligerently. He wasn't attacking anymore – he was rather begging, "How can I believe you?"

No answer came, and Legolas looked at the girl again only to forget everything and rush to her in horror, for she was sliding down the door, evidently fainting. Her hand was fluttering in front of her like a wounded bird in search of support, though there was nothing that could detain her fall. However quick the elf had been, he hadn't managed to get near her before she hit against the floor, and her eyes shut.


	8. Delirium

**Disclaimer: I don't own Legolas or Middle-Earth or anything of the kind. :o)**

**Author's note: **I can't believe it. I can't believe all the exams are really over! I'm free:o)))

**Zelinia: **Don't blame him, he's just confused. Thanks for your e-mail-help, by the way, I appreciate it. :o))

**Callisto Callispi:** I'm very glad you find it interesting. :o))) Thank you for such sufficient reviews, they are inspiring.

**Name1:** Help yourself. :o))) Hugs!

**Faerlas:** It's your turn to congratulate me. :o) I found the strength to cope with the last lady! The mark is excellent.

**Neniel Sildurien:** It's always pleasant to hear from new reviewers. Nice to meet you. :o))) Thanks for "the favourites", too. I'm flattered.

**Chapter 7.**

**Delirium.**

She couldn't have hit too hard… She had been unconscious before her head touched the dirty floor. There was a moment of overtaking of what had just happened, while Legolas was simply staring at the outstretched body at his feet, and then his brief astonishment dissolved in a surge of panic, compelling him to fall on his knees and raise her a little, his hands trembling and disobedient.

For a dreadful instance the elf thought that she was not breathing, but a weak echo of heartbeat under his palm relieved him. All of a sudden he forgot everything he knew about bringing people to themselves. All he could do was to place her head onto his laps and helplessly peer into her pale face, feeling wounded in the very heart. He could have slapped her, as she had once done it to him, yet instead of that his hand was just blankly stroking her cheek. Come back, begged he, come back to me… Please.

The twilight of the cell was melting the contours of her frame, and in a flash of imagination Legolas saw her leathern outfit turn into an emerald dress of velvet.

…A stream of blood was slowly creeping out of her mouth, and her eye-lashes began to palpitate, and he knew that when they would pull apart, her stare would be hungry and hostile…

"No," whispered the elf, "No, no…"

He shrank back, so that she almost fell on the floor again, as the vision faded away in a blink of an eye.

Eru, what insanity was coming over him? He had to brace himself, to so something...

Suddenly Gwirith took a sharp choking breath and opened her eyes, still dull with the remnants of a faint.

"The cursed arrow," muttered she hoarsely, "The cursed luck…"

Her glance met the anxious one of the elf - and he perceived the flood of pain and sufferings, she was attempting to swim out of.

"Did I scare you?" weakly asked the girl, "Forgive me. I'll be up now… Just a moment… Just one…"

Her voice trailed off, as she dropped her eye-lids once more, her muscles endeavoring to relax. His heart sank in terror. If he could only understand what was happening to her to suppress this utter helplessness and fear for her.

With an enormous effort he shook off his stupor and gathered himself. She shouldn't lie on the floor – he might have thought about it instead of wallowing in dismay.

His hands dutifully lifted a limp body, pressing it against his chest, while Legolas carefully stood up from his knees. When the girl appeared on the narrow bed, he sat near and brought his palm to her forehead.

It was hot, unhealthily, luridly, frightfully hot…

Gwirith stirred under his touch, a moan fleeing out of her lips.

"Don't…" forced out she, "It's cold…"

"Gwirith," it seemed to him, that she was balancing on the edge of a swoon again, "Please, tell me, what is wrong… Please…"

Two shapeless red spots were spreading over her cheek-bones, as she began to shake so violently, that Legolas could barely hold her. Still, somehow she managed to open her eyes once more, though there was nothing but pain and sickness pouring out of them.

"I stepped on an arrow there, in Rivendell," husky, faltering sounds were cutting into his ears, making him cringe, "An orc's… arrow… I thought … there was nothing to be afraid of… The battle was so… so long ago… No poison…lasts…"

The last words thawed in another moan, but what she had said was already enough to cause the elf get cold with horror.

He saw people pass away of a mere scratch, inflicted by a poisoned arrow. Nobody knew what kind of lethiferous blend the orcs applied to their foul weapon – but there was no doubt that anyone, stung by the steely snake which was belching such venom, sooner or later found himself in the painful embrace of death. And the weakest were the luckiest ones, for they perished on the spot, while the strongest had in their lot an endless chain of sufferings with no hope of surviving. Fever, unconsciousness, delirium, convulsions… Days of neither living, nor dying.

There was no need to mention that she was mistaken, having supposed the years to be able to remove the basilisk qualities of the poison. They just delayed the outcome…

For the second time he had to stand by her, watching her life drift out and doing nothing to withhold it. She was going to die.

The thought whipped him with all its bare inevitability. Her every breath could appear to be the last one.

She. Was. Going. To die.

What a fool he was not to appreciate her coming back to him! What a blindman to understand this gift only now, when it was going to be taken away from him again, because he didn't do anything to deserve it. He didn't guard her. It was as thought he murdered her once more.

A cold sweat crawled down the elf's neck at the realization that he was thinking about her like she had already been dead; and his despair changed into hopeless deliberateness. He wouldn't let her forsake him this time. While there was a glimpse of life in her, he was determined to fight for it to inflame.

She said she had stepped on the arrow. Legolas moved closer to her feet, and dragged off her boots, casting a studying glance at the soles. The left one bore a narrow slit – a mark of a wrong move of the foot, it was intended to protect. The elf threw it away to bend over the foot itself. A deep, scarlet-coloured wound stared at him from the strangely unhardened skin. One look was enough to understand that it was inflamed, and the inflammation had begun long before this day. It didn't skin over, didn't make a single attempt to. Eru alone knew what efforts it cost her not to limp.

The more Legolas scrutinized the cut, the less hope there left. Even if by some miracle he found water to cleanse it, it would be of little help, as the poison had probably contrived to soak into her veins. It was useless even to dream about procuring something to withstand its effect. Had he been at home now! Or had he been able to give up his blood in exchange of her envenomed one. He would have sacrificed it up to the last drop…

Water. He needed water.

The flask was empty, and if it were not, he wouldn't dare apply its contents to her wound.

Gwirith hadn't brought anything but food with her.

He couldn't come down in search of help. Not for a moment he allowed himself to think that the host was deceived by his disguise. The petty man was ready to overlook Legolas's origin for a fee of several coins while no one else guessed about his awareness, but would he be as ready to hide an elf if everyone in the hall saw him? Probably not…

Legolas jumped up, setting to pace from one corner of the room to the other. She would die, if he stayed here. He would die, if he revealed himself, and then she would be doomed all the same.

His feverish reflections were interrupted by a thin groan, followed by a strange sound, in which the horrified elf recognized gasping for breath. Gwirith was wriggling in the bed - her lips opened and closed, while her hand was desperately scratching her chest in attempt to let in the air. He rushed to her, grasping her shoulders not to allow her to hurt herself. Her cheeks were now burning-red. She tried to push him away, still fighting for breath, but he didn't obey. It was the vest, he supposed, that prevented her from inhaling, so he tore it off her, the hooks flying asunder all over the room.

"Hold on," whispered he pleadingly, "Hold on… Don't leave me…"

The girl gulped the air with a wheeze and became quiet. Her bosom was rising and falling much more easily, yet Legolas saw that the outbreak of life-battle tired her.

There was no more time to lose.

"I will be back," he stroke her hair, uneager to leave her even for an instance, "Just… Just breathe…"

And, having hooded his face again, Legolas stole out of the room.

Nobody detained him, while he was maneuvering between the tables in the direction of the host, who had obviously just begun a row with the plump evil-eyed woman at the bar. She favored the approaching elf with a harsh glance, which, to her disappointment, produced little of the expected impression.

From what he had seen in this place, Legolas made a conclusion that civility here was not made much of. So he just took the host by the sleeve and, paying no attention to a surprised gasp of the shrew, who seemed annoyed to be cut off in the middle of her fierce rambling, pushed him into the dark doorway near the bar.

They appeared in a cramped pantry, where reigned a rank odour, exhaled by two or three deer carcasses. The host, probably having appreciated the exceptional strength of the shove and not wanting to undergo another one, was keeping silence and didn't try to object, when Legolas shut the door behind them.

"My companion has fallen ill," plump started the elf, unbending himself so that he towered a head and a half above the wonder-stricken man, "I need water, light and something suitable for bandaging."

At first the host gave a start, yet soon his windy countenance concealed itself under the mask of impertinent obstinacy.

"I feel for you, milord. But there's nothing of the kind in my humble house," with that he attempted to pass by Legolas, but at the very moment let out a yelp of pain at being caught by a stone-strong hand and flattened against the wall.

"Such a pity," hissed the elf in a threatening whisper, "I wonder what you would do, when in need of it for yourself."

The knife, glittering from behind his belt, sobered up the host, whose eyes once sparkled with feeble malice and died out.

Legolas leaned against the jamb, watching the silent man rummage in the insides of the pantry. He could barely restrain his impatience, for with every minute of delay the boiling blood in the veins of the only one he ever cared for was slowly and inevitably cooling.

"That's all I've found," the host, who had turned into a hostage, was evading his eyes. The elf looked over the procured objects: there was a bottle of relatively clean water, an oil lamp and a rolled-up piece of fabric. He nodded, taking the man by his shoulder.

"Go out," said he calmly, "And bear in mind that the dead do not benefit from their state."

They crossed the hall together, and Legolas had to play a difficult ascent up the stairs, while his heart was beating in his throat at the necessity to waste precious time. _Her_ precious time…

A sudden pang of indecision and fear made him linger in front of the door. What if he was late? What if she…

The image, flashed up in his head, was so bright, and the thought, aroused by it, stung so painfully that he almost stormed into the room, plunging into the stream of whispering that filled it.

She was alive, but relief didn't to hasten to come to Legolas, as he saw how much her state had impaired in his short absence. Her body was squirming, shaken with the heaviest fever he had ever witnessed. She was muttering something, words pouring out of her in uninterrupted torrent, grasping one at another and turning her speech into incomprehensible range of sounds.

"Light it up," ordered Legolas, pointing at the lamp in the trembling hands of his temporal prisoner.

The latter obeyed, having nearly dropped a luminous thing in a hurry, because his eyes were chained to the girl on the bed. The elf carefully tore a piece off the delivered fabric and watered it to cleanse the wound. All of a sudden the door opened again. Legolas had scarcely looked up, and his glance fell on the stout figure of the shrew, about whom he had almost forgot.

She swam into the room strangely soundlessly for the one of such corpulent appearance and drooped over Gwirith, staring at her with grave concentration. Something moved in her impassive face, as she turned away to leave the room as quietly as she had entered.

In several minutes the woman showed up at the threshold once more, her hand clutching a bowl of steaming water, which she handed to Legolas. Then out of the pocket on her worldly-wise apron she produced a thing, which forced the elf, who had thought himself to be prepare to everything, to give a start of surprise.

"Poor girl," uttered she hushfully, placing a dry and priceless leaf of Athelas into the bowl and leaning to touch the forehead of the fevered one, "So much like my baby…"

With that she took herself off together with the host, seemed crushed by her words.

The sweet fragrance of Athelas was made to soothe – no doubt it was not enough to beget at least a small ray of hope, but for the one, who not so long ago hadn't reckoned at anything it was the greatest treasure ever imagined.

Under the touch of the potion-sodden material the aggressive colour of the wound became a little milder. Legolas carefully bandaged the injured feet, peeped at the girl's face to check if his actions brought her any relief, and involuntary started back…

She was staring at him with glassy unseeing eyes, her pupils so tiny that it looked like she had none at all.

"Legolas," her voice was distinct and calm as compared to the crisp rattle of the previous hours, "Where are you?"

"I'm with you," he reached out, running his fingers against her cheek, but she didn't move a muscle, as if his touch was weightless

"It's cold," complained she as blankly, "I'm freezing."

As she was lying over the only cover, he began to pull off his cloak, when she suddenly continued, her gaze still penetrating through him to fix on the nowhere:

"I hate marshes," then she paused, as if listening to somebody, and shook her head, "No, I cannot sleep. They are … they are looking at me."

There was so much dread in her phrase that it made him shudder. With a striking clarity he realized that he had tried to answer her in vain, for it wasn't him she was speaking to. All the shreds of his impressions, received in here, composed into the whole tale, and he got angry and disappointed at himself for not having seen it before. So easily he had accepted the existence of another Middle-Earth, another War, another Gwirith… Only one thing passed by his attention unnoticed, or rather disregarded. Another Legolas, whose ghost he suddenly felt standing behind his shoulders, there, where her glance had focused.

Deep they delved us… Whose lips did she remember to pronounce it?

All of a sudden Gwirith exerted herself like a tight bow-string, fear written on her face.

"Someone's coming," whispered she, "Legolas?"

Undetained, she jumped off the bed, stretching her hands in front of her, as if trying to hold somebody beside her… Her attempt seemed a failure, because she was continuing to step forward, no gestures this time, only a pleading glance of two transparent windows under her brows.

"Legolas, don't do it…Don't go there," tears swelled in her eyes and coursed down her cheeks, her chin was trembling, while she was as desperately reaching out for someone.

"Don't do it," repeated she shakily, with so much pain that his heart stood still, "I beg you… Don't… Legolas!"

A loud shrill shriek seemed to turn the girl inside out, yet she reiterated it, like she was being murdered. Her legs sank under her, and she fell on the floor, rocking herself back and forth in a mad fit of grief, till her forehead was against the soiled desks. There she lay folded and motionless, the soul-tearing sobs being the only signs of her remaining alive.

As if having woken up, the elf left the bed, kneeling down her. His uncertain fingers brushed against her back - she jerked up her head to let her eyes sink into his, and in the next moment he appeared in the circle of her arms, thrown around him. Her face was wet, but despair left it, giving place to mistrustful elation.

"You didn't go, did you?" she was feeling all over his chest, his shoulders, his neck and uttering short outcries, "Eru be blessed, you didn't…"

And before Legolas found any words of respond, Gwirith impulsively drew in to press her lips against his with brusque tear-filled passion, and then again, and again. For a short instance he managed to comprehend the depth of her delusion, but all his hesitations were washed away in a flood of bittersweet fervour, as he returned the kisses, the saltish flavour of her sorrow lingering upon his mouth. The girl bent back, cupping his face with her palms.

"Promise that you'll never leave me," demanded she suppliantly, "Can't you see, I'm not able to go through it anymore? How could you do this to me?"

"I won't leave you," his shaky arms clutched around her, as he leaned his head against her shoulder to hide his untruthful eyes.

He felt her smile, but then her body went limp, depriving him of its support and slowly sinking on the floor again.

* * *

It was a dark room, and even darker thoughts plagued the mind of the wakeful occupant of it, who was sitting at the foot of the narrow bed, never ceasing his vigil even to wink. A poor-looking oil lamp was emitting smoke with the faint and bitter savour of cinders, and casting goldish spots of light over the face of the immobile person in front of him.

She was pale and quiet. Several times Legolas took fright at her not moving and reached out for her, uttering a sigh of relief, when her skin appeared to be warm under his touch.

He had hoped to conquer her heart again. Again – this word sounded so unmeaning and so conceited. The heart he had longed for had stopped too many years ago. As well as the one of the girl he chose as his guide, because from what he had observed it was impossible to believe that any heart was able to overcome such pain. Happy he was whose shadow aroused so much love and grief in her… He probably deserved that. He probably loved her, and this feeling was requited. Even as dead he continued to be an object of her affection.

And he himself was nothing more but a mere resemblance of his twin. He would never obtain his Gwirith, because she had already belonged to him. What a sneer of fate… He would laugh if he didn't want to cry so badly…

Had the Legolas of hers known how it hurt her to lose him, before he stepped over the edge of life? Had he known how it hurt his living replica to see her mourn this loss so inconsolably? Had he felt the same giddiness as her lips granted him with the treasure of her ardent kiss?

The lamp gave a small hiss and went out, immersing the room into the dangerous darkness. The elf started. For some reason the sudden death of the drop of light seemed to him a dismal omen. The biting draught crept along the floor, slamming a loose shutter. A strange thing – he was almost sure that Gwirith had locked the window.

She stirred uneasily, and his cloak, which had been serving her as a cover for all this time, slipped a bit. Legolas leaned to restore it to its proper place, but was stopped still by her voice, sounding so ghostly, as if she was speaking from afar.

"Let me go."

At first he though that she was still delirious, and didn't answer, knowing the futility of such conduct. But she went on with no signs of being unconscious:

"I'm dying, Legolas. I want to die. Please, let me go…"

There was something in her calm, abrupt phrases that made him give way to despair, he had been suppressing for so long, absorbed in his cares about her. No troubles of his cost anything if she gave up.

"You don't understand what you are asking about," a dull attempt, almost an obvious prompt. Her chuckle sounded softly and indulgently, as she moved her hand an inch forward to squeeze his fingers. And her answer was breathing with the gravest sincerity:

"I do. Don't hamper me – it hurts to stay any longer."

Legolas bit his lip at her statement. She had studied him too well. The last thing he wanted was to cause her to suffer, and he would have surrendered, if he had failed to realize that it was hardly more than a war-game with his feelings. It unsettled and hardened him. Hardened – because once more she had tried to toy with him, while he almost let himself be led on this leash. Unsettled – because for a moment it seemed to him that her reasoning, on which she based the assumption of her having a right to do so, was different from what he had supposed it to be the first time.

"You a liar," said he coldly, "You promised to lead me out of here, and now want to escape…You are a contemptible coward."

"I am," but the elf saw that her lips began to tremble with offence and weakness. Valars, he despised himself for having abused her, but was intended to go on this very way…

"You owe me," reminded he with as much of a chill as he was able to elicit from his nearly distracted person, "You must keep your word."

A tear slipped down her temple, leaving a thin wet pass for whatever drops of moisture were going to follow it.

"Please," begged Gwirith thinly, "please, let me go. They are calling for me. They are waiting."

"They will _have to_ wait," Legolas was inexorable, "I don't want to appear in the mercy of fate."

A sob broke loose from her lips, and she stopped restraining herself, getting lost in silent weeping. In a complete agony of desire to console her he felt as if he was holding her heart in his hands, slowly and deliberately piercing it with needles, while she was squirming of physical pain before his very eyes. But he continued to do it, inwardly praying for her not to come out of a strange error that she was indebted to him.

"I entreat you," now she was whispering, her gaze not for a moment withdrawn from the door behind him, "I beg you. You don't have to say you let me. Just turn away. For a breath, for a heartbeat… Please… Why are you so merciless?"

"Because I care about you," confessed he simply, watching her gasp in powerless astonishment, "Hate me if you want, but don't leave me."

Her eyes closed in defeat, while she let out a thrilling sigh and relaxed, sinking into immobile meditation. Uneager to believe the retreat she performed after such persistent blandishments, the elf kept waiting for another supplication to decline, but minutes were going by as nothing except her unsteady sniffs reached his strained ears. Fear and doubts woke up in him. What if he had been too hard? What if Gwirith justly concluded that she didn't need any permission of his to pass away?

Having hesitated, he carefully slipped into the bed near the girl and put his arm around her, his cheek prickled with the spikes of her wetted hair. She gave a slight start, but in the next moment turned to him, daring a quick look, filled with reproach, into his eyes. Yet somehow it brought her greater misery than it could have brought him, so she averted her glance and guardedly buried her face in his chest, allowing him to draw her nearer.

And so they lay, crushed and tired, clutched in each other's arms, but hardly paying attention to their closeness. Half-laid-back, Legolas was whispering something into her ear, something of comfort and consolation… A lot of words, a lot of caressing names, so significant in any other case, and so helpless now, they were but a mere husk of what was pounding inside his mind. Too "not his" to come closer… Too unshielded to leave…Too precious to lose again. It was hopeless to try and express it all, so he left all the attempts in favour of solicitously rocking her to sleep, taking delight in her quieting down in his embrace till the fatigue prevailed over him and he let himself be lulled by the reassuringly even sound of her breath.

The first rays of the nascent sun, which was falling through the window, found him in a deep troubled slumber, knitting his brows and wincing at the gloomy images that invaded his dreams.

* * *

A/N: _If there are mistakes – I sincerely apologize. I haven't been sleeping for two nights already because of the last exam._ _I hope you all liked the chapter. The next chapter will be soon, but it doesn't mean that I don't crave for getting reviews from you. Love you all._

_Yours, Adamanta._


	9. Between the devil and

**Disclaimer: **Don't own it.

**_Author's note: _**I'm offended. I'm crying… Too few reviews… You want me to go and jump out of the window, I know it... I've already cleared my window-sill off the rubber-plant and other flowers so that there was some place for me. :o((( Here are two chapters for you - may be the quantity will change your mind, since the quality seems unable to do it…. :o)

**Faerlas: **Can't wait for it. I feel the inclination to grate on my nerves. :o))) Thanks for being there.

**ZELINIA: **(offering you a handkerchief) You'll need it. I hope. :o))) Sorry, I guess I'm too evil, but your review was touching.

**Chapter eight.**

**Between the devil and…**

He was lagging along the narrow passage, stumbling at every step and catching at the rough stones of the walls around him. His legs were bare and covered with fresh wounds, and the sickening taste of blood lingered in his mouth. He didn't remember how he had appeared in this endless burrow; he didn't know how to get out of it. The only thing he saw was a spot of pinkish light somewhere far ahead, and he kept dragging his rebellious body towards it, like an injured moth still willing to burn in the flame of a candle.

Suddenly his palm touched something slimy and salient – wincing, he turned his head to see what it had been and his hair immediately stood on end, as he viewed the stone surface ooze with dense oily liquid, the incarnadine colour of which was marred with darker spots, swelling up as though something was forcing its way from within. In a blink of an eye the whole passage was dripping in that stirring matter. With a jerk of disgust he attempted to recoil from the wall, but the amorphous substance swiftly took the shape of a livid hand with long white nails, a hand which seized him in a death grip. The blood-like coverage quavered – a sluggish surge ran along it and broke against the wall ahead. There came an uncanny silence, during which he was less alive than the _something_, separated from him by the opaque liquid… The only feeling part of his body was his arm, softly squeezed and – he could swear it was true – _fondled_ by the eerie wall-bred hand.

And then as if on command, the passage began to sprout out hundreds of other hands. They were touching and grasping him, stroking and scarring… They smirched him with crimson streaks and stained his face with bruises…

And there was a moment of lull again, till a pair of hands clapped, the sound sweeping over the passage to be taken up by all the others. The claps were intentionally rhythmical and threatening… His heart tuned up to them, shrinking faster and faster. Beat by beat, pant by pant…

Something pushed him in his back, and he suddenly found himself caught up and carried towards the light split in the veil of darkness, bone-thin fingers digging into his flesh. He attempted to hold onto the hands, as the horror before them was suddenly surpassed by the horror before what was expecting him there, where he was dragged to. But the malicious limbs easily repulsed his desperate attacks and continued to throw him over their neighbours into the grasp of the following eager arms. A step away from the radiant break in the wall they slowed down – he helplessly hang between them, almost blacked-out.

"You are awaited," breathed out somebody at his right. With his last bit of strength he managed to look back and see the lurid male image flash and disappear in the twilights above the hands that were wringing him now. His heart seemed to glaciate with shake when his memory attached the name to this image, the name of the one who had fallen long ago. Boromir.

With the brutal shove from behind he flew out into the spacious cave, filled with dancing shreds of the flame. Having landed hard and practically crashed his face against the floor, he writhed into a bundle of broken bones and torn muscles, too weak even to groan.

"Poor thing…"

A slight whisper came together with a soft palm, caressing his shoulder. He had never thought that simple looking up can be so painful. But all his sufferings were rewarded, when he saw who had condescended to pity him…

There was so much love and tenderness in her hazel eyes that he suddenly shuddered and burst out sobbing, miserably and uncontrollably. "Gwirith," whispered he through the tears, "Gwirith, Gwirith, Gwirith…"

He had missed her. Eru, he had missed her so sorely. He was afraid to stop calling her name, lest she should disappear as soon as he ceased.

"Hush," she was still gently stroking him, like he was a scared child, "It's over. I'm with you now."

"I… I love you," he choked out, grasping at her hand, "I'm so sorry."

"I know," smiled she, and he felt his heart melt with happiness and relief.

She bent in, and he moved towards her lips, eager to seal his blame and her forgiveness and never remember them again now, when there was nothing but their reunion.

But all of a sudden she shrank back, uttering a cry of hurt. Something jerked her body in the air, her hair standing above her head as if she was tugged by it. The floor yawned… The part of it collapsed, leaving him on the ledge, with the flaming chasm raging beneath him.

The same unknown power overturned Gwirith – she froze above the red abyss, outstretching her hand for him, and he almost believed that he would manage to catch it, to keep her…

With a shriek she lost her invisible hold and flew down, an instant before his fingers clenched around the empty space.

A greedy splash of lava testified that the precipice had obtained the offering…

And he dropped his face in his hands and cried, cried till his eyes were burnt out with tears and his lungs couldn't make another breath…

* * *

"Looking at you one will prefer not to have any dreams at all…"

Legolas jumped up with a start, still feeling the hot stones under his palms and still seeing the fathomless pit of fire, which gaped in front of him. But the vision faded, and there left nothing except the bare grey walls of the small room, and the scalding moisture on his cheeks…

Gwirith was sitting on the bed there, where he kept his vigil several hours ago. The knee of her bandaged leg was pulled up to allow her chin to rest against it in a thoughtful manner. She smiled at him with the corners of her pale lips only.

"Would you care to wake up?" asked she a bit hoarsely, "We must be going."

"You are … well," stated Legolas with slight hesitation, examining her face in search of any traces of indisposition, yet finding just somewhat deepened blackness of her pupils and light shadows under her eyes, which could have been left unnoticed by a stare less intent. It was hard to believe that she was the same girl, who had begged him to let her die overnight. She seemed quite sound now, with her bearing easy and her smile leisured. Even her hair, he used to see twisted and disheveled, was carefully untangled and pulled into a think bronze braid, offhandedly coming down her collar-bone.

"Am I?" her ability to mock has also returned to her, but he was even pleased to greet it, in spite of becoming the aim of her vague jests. The elf sat up, running his hands along his face to efface the remnants of sleep.

"Looks like," answered he, having accurately measured the amount of carelessness in his tone. Yet her reciprocal chuckle unexpectedly echoed with a pang in his heart, and he added, brusquely and almost irritably, not knowing what caused this frankness, "I thought I would lose you. I'm… I'm glad to have been mistaken."

A retort flashed in her eyes, but there must have been something in his voice that made her change her mind and look down, suddenly saddened. Legolas wavered, tearing apart between the desire to embrace her and fear that he might be unwelcome. Still, his words had made a first step, and it would have been cowardly of him not to make a second. Nobody could call him a coward.

The elf slowly leaned in and placed a hand on her shoulder. It appeared to him that the girl made a slight movement towards him, as if wanting to conceal herself in his arms. Was she waiting for him to go on?

But as soon as he drew in, a tremble passed along her frame, and she took a short startled breath, so he lingered, dismayed and hesitant, until it all looked embarrassingly clumsy. Utterly confused, he settled on giving her a gentle kiss on the forehead, while Gwirith seemed to be reassured by the impersonality of the gesture.

"It's nice that at least one of us finds reasons to be glad," uttered she flatly, standing up. The thrown-back braid lightly tapped against her vest, and he noticed that all the hooks were at their proper places again.

"I was thinking while you were asleep," she was standing with her back towards him, so that it was impossible to read her face, but her voice was even and her phrases smooth, producing the impression of the well-prepared ones, "You must know where we are going. Anything can happen to me, and you must be able to move on. Don't!" she raised a warning finger, as he tried to object to her statement, "Listen. It happened so that long ago I had a chance to visit Mordor. There, down one of its death-reeking passages we… I came across the door behind which there was something that made me think this world to have a kind of a twin. It didn't matter to me then. Besides, I had my reasons to keep it to myself. I wasn't even sure my supposition was correct, but seeing you persuades me. I'll try my best to lead you there and let you through the door."

"How do you know that I came from there?" a sudden suspicion leapt up to life within Legolas. The story was too blank. Too shallow. She didn't seem the one to rely on such small chances. He didn't know why but she sounded deceitful to him.

Gwirith must have felt the strain, that had overcome him, because she shook her head and smiled condescendingly.

"Don't be afraid," said she softly, "If I had wanted your death I would have betrayed you long ago."

But somehow the elf found falsity even in this strange kind of reassurance.

"You don't believe me?" Gwirith pursed her lips thoughtfully, and then unexpectedly blurted out, "It was you who murdered her, wasn't it?"

The lightning, had it struck right in front of Legolas, wouldn't have staggered him so much as the simple question. An impish grin crossed her lips, as he was looking at her, at a loss of what to say.

"Doesn't it prove me right?"

"You knew," whispered he mistrustingly, "You knew it and you had the temerity to ask me who had done it? Why?"

"And why did you kill her?" retorted she with growing irritation, "I wanted to check if I led you to the right place. Anyway I told you she would have forgiven you if she had had such an opportunity. Stop wallowing in self-hatred. I doubt she could have been attracted to you now, seeing you like this."

All of a sudden he remembered that vague feeling of being managed by her, like he was a puppet with his cords in her hands. He had been right – she had played with him, being aware of his guilt and his remorse and using it to keep him in check. A repugnant mastery she had demonstrated… Had she any kind of a soul at all? Had there been at least one spontaneous word, one real emotion? Hardly… She was as cold as ice and as thought-of as the most subtle lie.

Yet even the knowledge of it brought him no victory over her. His murder remained on his person. He couldn't stop comparing her with his love and thus long for her. There wasn't even the smallest use in fighting, because she was absolutely indifferent to it. He was not relevant for her.

He had to get rid of these chains, and he saw only one way out – to harden himself and let her help him. May be there, back home he will manage to live as he had lived before. Without her.

"When shall we set out?" inquired the elf as cool-bloodily as he could afford.

"Right now," responded Gwirith resolutely, "And we shall go our fastest."

* * *

"Why did we stop?"

There seemed not to have been an hour since they had left Hollin, and the settlement was still in sight, nevertheless they were standing dead at the top of one of the innumerable hills, with her being silent and pensive.

"I'm thinking," it was hard to say that the answer satisfied Legolas, for he couldn't restrain himself not to drop an acid:

"Are you unable to think and to walk at the same time?"

"Forsooth, if I'm thinking of where we must walk to," reacted Gwirith quite amicably, "Though you might help me now that you know our destination. Caradhras or Moria?"

He held back the question, hanging on the tip of the tongue. There were no other ways to interpret her enquiry, except as the want of his making a choice of the road, they would follow. Caradhras… Snow under his feet and on his face, good-natured jokes at his mortal companions and the search of the sun… Moria? Avid tentacles, transfixed with his arrows, the heavy air of the underground, and the cry of Gandalf, disappearing in the blazing depth… Suddenly Legolas understood that he knew nothing of both places. He couldn't remember anything except those flashes of anger or fierce concentration, he had experiences there. Mere vague emotions.

"Which is safer?"

Gwirith shrugged her shoulders, now covered with a fur-listed cloak, she somehow managed to get from the hostess of the inn. Considering the strange attachment, the latter demonstrated for his companion, Legolas cherished a hazy idea that he was not the only one on whose feelings the little witch had skillfully played.

"None is safer," said she matter-of-factly, "I'm not sure that I can lead us out of Moria, because I'm barely acquainted with it. The last time I was there it was me who was led. But it's easier to hide there. Caradhras is much more open for an alien eye, yet it takes not so long to cross it. Choose."

"What makes you think I can choose wisely?" Legolas saw the girl grin at his question, though it wasn't supposed to sound funny.

"You are so solemn," murmured she with slight mockery, though her eyes had none of the derisive glitter that had usually accompanied such gibes, "It's just that your intuition is supposed to be better than mine. You are an elf, aren't you?"

What was there in her voice that forced him to smile against his will, feeling unexpectedly flattered? Eru, she could be soft when she wanted. It took her just several words, devoid of chill, to endear him. She hadn't had to allow him to get closer – all she had needed was to show that she could have let it to him. And behold - he was ready to jump into another abyss of delusion, notwithstanding his awareness, that she was more of an enemy than of a friend.

And still he could not forbid his heart to miss a bit when her grin ended up in a snowy-teethed smile, when she leaned to pick up two random dry blades – one shorter than the other.

"Let's draw lots," Gwirith hid the blades in her palm, holding them with her tanned thumb, so that their tips were timidly peeping out at him. Legolas stared at them, as a strange sensation came over him – the sensation of walking along a thin hair above the precipice. That was all his life cost – two blades in a girlish arm, each probably being the key to the infamous death. Strange that he hadn't realized it before.

"This one," said the elf, pulling out the one that seemed slightly closer to him. The shorter one.

"Moria," stated Gwirith darkly, "Well, at least it's you who chose it."

"The lot is the lot," objected Legolas calmly, throwing away the blade, "Lead, and I shall follow you."

She sighed and moved down the hill, the long lap of the cloak sweeping along the dusty ground. This time he didn't fail to notice that her gait kept a limp, which made her straight bearing somewhat unnatural, as if she was stepping on thorns and trying not to let too many of them stay in her soles. He couldn't say why, but her sight had reminded him of the scene he had seen once and had forgotten. Long ago, during one of their raids against the black hordes of orcs, gagging at the frontiers of the Mirkwood, they happened upon a young elfling, so young that his age was probably not nearing even his first hundred. His shoulder was impaled through with the sharpest of the daggers, and someone's merciless hand had broken the haft, while the blade remained in the wound, which must have been causing a boy dreadful sufferings. But even as they were pulling the dagger out and the sweat of tormenting was rolling down his pale forehead, he didn't move a brow. And only his eyes were as stony and estranged, as the air with which Gwirith was covering the yards in front of him.

Lost in recollections the elf didn't catch the moment when she stopped, and stopped so abruptly that he bumped into her, nearly knocking her down.

"Did I say something while I was unconscious?" she spoke rapidly, an edge of nervous perseverance not corresponding to the outward composure of her face.

The sobs in the dark room rang in his ears again, and her hands, twisted in anguish emerged in his mind's eye. _Legolas,_ _don't do it…Don't go there… _

But he would tell her nothing of that, he decided. As well as he would tell her nothing of the kisses he received on behalf of the one they were meant for.

"You didn't," lied Legolas quietly, thankful for the hood, protecting his eyes from her sharp gaze. Her lips made a short twitch… It wasn't clear whether it was a movement of anger or annoyance. But he felt that he didn't manage to deceive her. She knew that he had lied to her. She knew the answer not having asked the question.

"Let's move," was it his imagination, or did he really hear the catch in her steely voice?

However, he had no time to contemplate over it any further, because Gwirith turned away and practically ran forward.

For a second it seemed to him that her shoulders were trembling…

* * *

A large dim eye blinked, capturing the image which was reflecting in it, like in a slimy mirror – the image of two small figures, moving one after the other somewhere far down. A lingering shriek hewed the air, as the watcher was mercilessly spurred by its rider… Yet the figures were so distant that the sound had faded before it reached their ears. As well as the swish of a pair of webbed wings, carrying the sleek piece of darkness to the mountain peaks, half-lost behind the greyish twilight veil…

* * *

_Turn over the page – and proceed… The next chapter holds a thing that I hope you won't kill me for. It's a surprise. A big surprise. Have some pity towards the nutty author. :o)_


	10. Legolas, the

**For the disclaimer see the previous chapters. Have you prepared for the surprise already? Well, then read on… :o) **

**Chapter nine.**

**Legolas, the… **

The days were measured in strides, and the nights breathed with crisp chill, stealing in clothes and sinking its icy fangs into shriveling skin. Each time Legolas woke up, his lips ached as if the warmth of his blood wasn't enough to melt the rime, left by the cruel kisses of the dawn. Gwirith's braid was undone again, and he almost envied her, for her luxuriant hair was much better protection from cold than his sleek and now dirty tresses. Her hands slowly lost their tan and then paled like bleached rose-petals.

It was out of the question to make the smallest fire – they had to be content with clinkingly-crystal starlight or tepid rays of the sullen sun. Even the rocks, which had grown up in slanting walls around them, froze through and seemed eager to split at a careless touch or sound.

Gwirith shied away from him with firm insistence, bordering with a strange desperation. She hadn't said much before but in comparison with perfect muteness she demonstrated now the elf began to think that he had already enjoyed the peak of her garrulity. She always held herself a step or two ahead and never came closer than that. The flask or the dinner-bowl, had it been in his hands, had to be put down on the ground before she condescended to accept it. She didn't reject him pronouncedly – oh, no, she was far too subtle for it, - but Legolas still felt like a leprous, disgusting to touch. Had he deserved that for the way he took care about her while someone else would have left her dying of that fever in favour of saving his own life?

But she wanted to die… Was she able to revenge him for not having let her?

He strived to know which of her ravings she remembered. There were no doubts that the reasons of her determination in drawing such an impassable line between them lay there, in the hopeless confrontation of their wills that night. She could have thought he only cared for her because she was his last way to get home. But if she was indifferent to him, why would it hurt her? And he wasn't so self-assertive as to believe that she would suddenly change her mind and accept him. Besides, he probably couldn't count at anything but the place of her Legolas. To agree to being loved because the really loved one looked his ringer? Because he had the same eyes, the same name, the same touch? To be kissed and to die of angst and jealousy at knowing that it was not him she caressed?

To be kissed! The elf mocked at himself, watching her face turn stony each time he stroke her eye. She wouldn't come close enough even to hit him. What was that she said about the Gwirith of his? _I doubt she could have been attracted to you now._

And yet once he opened his eyes to find himself safely covered with her cloak.

She was sitting at a distance of those cursed several steps away from him, her arms folded around her knees, which he had already marked as her favourite pose. The wind was carefully stirring her hair, as though wanting to plait itself into the wavy bronze-shot locks.

She was crying.

Silent, bitter tears were dimly glimpsing on her motionless face and falling down, soaking into her clothes. She didn't make a single effort to wipe them away and just blinked, whenever her eyes got overfilled with stinging moisture. That was probably due to the shroud of weeping that the girl failed to notice his wakeful state.

He had to get up and soothe her. He had to…

But when she casually glanced in his direction, something forced Legolas to pretend that he was still asleep.

Through the loosely shut eye-lashes he saw Gwirith press her palms against her face, sigh and then suddenly and swiftly stand up to creep up to him.

Guardedly, soundlessly she sank to her knees beside him, and Legolas understood that his precaution was not groundless. His heart unexpectedly set to throb with such a mad frenzy that he feared she would hear it and expose his sham. Calm down… He wittingly exerted himself and then relaxed all the muscles, ordering his breath to even out and trying to persuade his conscious that he was lying in his own bed, with only one wish – to be swallowed by a deep placid sleep.

"Legolas…"

He gave no answer, his whole being concentrated on her rustling voice. Cold fingertips slid against his forehead…

"Legolas," this time she sounded a little louder, but the elf remained mute and unresponsive. A hand ghosted over his chest, smoothing out the cloak. Even through the several layers of fabric Legolas felt that it was icy, but the chill was unusually welcome, as it cooled the fever of tension, which had settled down in his bosom, like a tight clod.

"I hope you are what you seem to be," whispered Gwirith, bending away yet not leaving his side, "I… I'll tell you a story," she let out a small shaky chuckle, full of self-sneer and sadness, "Funny… To tell a story when one is already asleep… Anyway… Once upon a time…"

She trailed off, uttering a hoarse groan…

"It's hard to begin," muttered she desperately, "Eru, let you be sleeping and deaf to my tale."

What was he doing? It was obvious that she was torturing herself, and would proceed unless he threw away his deceit. He could feign to be woken up by her voice. He didn't want to hear whatever she was going to say if it made her suffer. Still he faint-heartedly lingered, not daring open his eyes and cursing his cowardice.

"Once upon a time there lived a Silly girl," she paused, but instantly went on, detached and tensely-nonchalant, "There lived a Silly girl, who loved nothing but her books. And there was one book she loved most – the beautiful story about the land, full of generous elves and courageous men, fighting to save their home and their people from the evil. The story about the war and the victory, won neither by Elves nor by Men, but by a little Halfling, who had destroyed the Evil lord's only hope – his precious Ring of Power. The Silly girl slept with this book, woke up with it, reread it over and over and prayed to find herself there, in this world of her dreams, and live among those whom she deified. Nobody can say what happened but once she really appeared there. In her book. In the very beginning of it… God, she was so happy…"

God? The word was unfamiliar to Legolas. Unlike the story. He had already been told it, though not like this. It was the same explanation his Gwirith had given to her appearance in Rivendell. It was what had doomed him to his endless remorse.

"The Silly girl fancied she was sent there on purpose. She was silly, like I said. Yet she managed to infect the others with her folly and to beat her way through into the Fellowship. And so instead of nine there were ten of them – The Crownless King, The Proud Warrior, The Wise Wizard, The Brave Dwarf, The Ring Bearer and three of his best friends… The Noble Prince," Gwirith stumbled, as if something prevented her from speaking, "and the girl. They left Rivendell and headed for Mordor to throw the Ring into Orodruin, thus unyoking all races from the slavery of fear. The Silly girl knew how it must happen. She watched. She promised herself not to interfere lest she should spoil something. And she kept her word up to the moment when she remembered the Proud Warrior to give up his soul in the fight with the Ring's charms, and fall, causing the splitting of the Fellowship. That's when she broke. She couldn't wait and let the one she had been sharing meal and conversation with, the one whom she had not once entrusted her life in battles, die so awfully, no matter if his death was meant to redeem his weakness. It seemed inhuman to her. It was inhuman. So, when on the fateful day the Proud Warrior made a step after The Ring Bearer, the Silly girl barred his way and asked if he minded to have a walk with her. Sure, he minded, but the Silly girl could be persuasive if she chose to. Especially… Especially when she knew she had a certain power over the Proud Warrior. One might say that she almost bribed him, though she understood very well, that when the time to pay would come, she would have nothing to give him, for all she had promised had already belonged to another one. But then she didn't even hope this _another_ need it…"

There was a moment of silence, and she chuckled, but her chuckle was short and quaky.

"When the orcs attacked, everyone was prepared, and the assault was repulsed. The Fellowship was preserved in its unity. But there was no former concord in it. The Proud Warrior remained aloof, the others grew hostile towards him, and only the Silly girl left it all unnoticed, because there was the Noble Prince. She was happy again, too happy to pay attention to anything else. She mindlessly refused to deal with her doing. And one day the darkness got an upper hand over the Proud Warrior again, and they … and we woke up to find Frodo and Sam murdered and the Ring stolen…"

Long had the elf forgotten to pretend sleeping, and there was no need in it, for Gwirith spoke steadily, making no more stops, faltering not a single time, appearing to have fallen into a trance. His blood was freezing in his veins, as the story developed before him, coming down like an avalanche. Everything she had gone through. Astonishment, fear, realization, guilt, sorrow, pain, regret, exasperation … indifference. Bitterness. Sneer.

Boromir was chased by Aragorn and Legolas, but it was only Legolas who returned to them with the Ring. Aragorn perished in the battle on their way back, transfixed with a baleful orc's blade. As the journey went on, the Fellowship diminished, as if it had been accompanied by the Death itself, thieving a new victim each time they were forced to halt. After Aragorn came Gimli, then Merry and Pippin. And meanwhile Kingdoms were falling as easily as mortal warriors. King Théoden remained in the clutches of madness, and Rohan didn't overcome the invasion of Uruk-hai. There were no more allies to support Gondor – and Gondor was razed to the ground by the wave of the black scum. The world was tumbling down…

"But we were going ahead," the cool voice broke into husky undertone, "There were only two of us to have reached Mordor. Two wretched, gaunt beings, dragging each other on and on… The Silly Girl… and the Noble Prince. Nobody to save anymore. Only vengeance made them move – all-consuming desire to revenge. And…"

Gwirith suddenly sobbed, losing the air of aloofness, which scared him so much by the unnatural serenity it imparted to her horrible tale.

"It was my fault. It was all my fault," repeated she in an ardent, desperate whisper, "I destroyed it all. He was with me, all that time, kissing me and soothing me, me – the murderer! I loved him… Eru knows I did. I could tear out my heart and throw it into that hellhole of a mountain for him. His arms were bliss… I forgot everything…"

She leaned to him, vehemently, impetuously, scalding his face with her fervent breath, caring no more if her was asleep or not.

"You have no idea, how it hurts me to see you. You are too much like him. Your hair smells of wind, your voice sounds like a song in the crystal morning… And I want to hurt you and to kiss you. I hate you…"

Her lips were moving so close to his burning mouth, that he felt their soft surface brush against it. Her tears were falling on his skin, as his heart seemed to shrink and slip somewhere down at each drop, because it was followed by a stroke of her trembling hand, trying to wipe it away. And then, before the echo of her last words melted in the brittle air, she was already kissing him, merging the splinters of their jaded souls into one. Almost physical agony of anguish ripped him open, releasing all he had been racked with – intolerable longing, murderous jealosy, bleeding love, fear and despair. There was not a shadow of tenderness in his reciprocate kiss – Gwirith quietly cried out, starting back and bringing her hand to her mouth, but he didn't let her escape, springing up to get possession of her lips again, in a slow and apologetic manner. He had caressed her until she gave up and answered, her gentle surrender intoxicating him more than the kiss itself.

"I love you," altered she faintly, her forehead against his, her eyes closed. She protested neither when Legolas brought her to his chest, nor when he buried his face in her hair, inhaling barely perceptible, yet ravishing smell. And his pain was gradually allayed by it, leaving a vague memory of itself in spiny pangs, which seemed delightful now, when their ancestor sank in oblivion.

All of a sudden Gwirith broke loose from his grip and jumped back to her feet, as if he was a venomous serpent.

"No," uttered she with the fright in her hazel stare, "It's wrong. I was wrong."

"Gwirith," the elf tried to approach her, longing to efface that threatening look of grave determination from her colour-depleted face, but his endeavor failed, when she darted away from him, pressing her back against the plumb rock, "I heard what you said. I know that you will try to lie to me now, and I won't believe you."

"No more lies there will be, Legolas," she slowly shook her head, watching him with fathomless dismay, "For I have said all my lies before. I do not love you, or rather it's not you I love. You might think that you love me, but thus you'll deceive yourself, and you must feel it no worse than I feel my mistake now. You won't touch me anymore. Forgive me."

"I can't!" exclaimed Legolas, grieved by her resistance. But as soon as he ventured to step up to her, she swiftly moved away, so that his extended hand met the emptiness, "Gwirith," pleaded he, following her like a lost man follows the last ray of light in the wild thicket, "Gwirith, don't repel me. You are unjust."

The girl stopped short, clenching her teeth with indignation.

"What do you want from me?" hissed she harshly, "I saved your life, I'm risking my own, I'm leading you home, I hide you and feed you, and bear your misplaced principles and remarks on my behaviour. What else do you need?"

"I need _you,_" cried Legolas in hopelessness. It suddenly felt like nothing but her ever existed – nothing but this figure of a furious fallen nymph, sharp as a lightning – nothing but her and his desire to win her love.

"You need the one you killed," snapped back the nymph, leaving him speechless, but unsubdued.

They stood in stillness, broken only by their breathing, uneven and heavy.

"Let me kiss you again," asked he quietly, "Let _me_ kiss you, and let me be the one you kiss back. And if you say you don't want me, there will be no other touch I offend you with."

She didn't say anything, her eyes fixed on the ground… She didn't say anything, and all he had to do was to lean closer, discarding his pride for a mindless attempt to prove her that what they felt was not a delusion, that she could trust him, like he was ready to trust her…

A giant shadow slid down, deafening Legolas with a vile shrill, in which one could hear thousands of cries and moans, poured together to beget a soul-freezing war-cry of death. Five scaly claws closed round the waist of Gwirith, and a black hand, bound with dangerously sparkling steel jerked her up the titanic body of the winged monster, the same moment as his own shoulders appeared in innumerable ugly clutches of orcs, dragging him back from her.

The coaly wings almost scratched against the walls of the rocky passage. There came a sharp scream, cut short, when the rider swiped the girl, the metal thorns of his glove crushing her cheek-bone. Her limp body hung across the saddle, while her hair began slowly getting drenched in blood.

The nazgul shot up - in an instance they were already no more than a glimpse of horror between the crimson dawn clouds.

Legolas was growling in helpless rage, trying to throw off the attackers, who were whistling and scoffing at his mad struggle.

"A pretty elf," rattled one of the orcs, taking out a long rusty knife and running its tip against the elf's throat, so that the ties of the cloak came apart, "Lost his pretty girl."

The group burst out croaking with mockingly-sympathetic laughter. The blade came lower, leaving a deep bleeding line on Legolas's chest.

"Let us help him forget this. Put out his eyes, drink his blood – and he will think of nothing but pleading us to finish him… Will you?"

Legolas jerked forward, nearly wrenching his bones out of the joints. But there were too many of them to grasp him, and he hadn't managed even to touch his dagger. The laughter became thundering – somebody spit at him, the stinky liquid landing on his cheek.

"Don't worry," the orc bared his green, widely spaced teeth, "We shall kill you. In the end…"

The joke must have seemed funny to him, because he threw back his misshaped head, roaring in a fit of twisted joy.

The next moment he choke, his eyes growing large and unbelieving. The sniggering around died down. The orc gave several lurches, like a tower, bereaved of its foundation, and heavily tumbled down at the feet of the elf…

…an arrow jutting out of his crooked mouth.

His fellows squealed, scattering in all directions only to fall under the flow of new arrows, which appeared to come from the stones themselves, as there was no one else to show up on the slaughter-field. In a blink of an eye everything was over for the pawns of the dark side. Nobody survived.

A dozen of svelte shadows melted out of the grey clefts, splitting the rocks around him. They glided noiselessly, as though their feet were not touching the ground… Legolas made a deep breath of relief and joy at seeing their light stalk. There were no creatures, matching the elves in their grace – even at the minutes of the most furious combat. He was among his kins.

"Mae govannen," greeted he his saviors, bringing his hand to his heart and smiling. But no one responded to his salute. As soundlessly and solemnly the figures surrounded him. And their circle suddenly bristled up with the stings of arrows, dancing on the bent bows.

"Long have I waited for this meeting," the voice was deep and dreary. Two of the warriors stepped aside to let in a tall, stately elf with a fatigued face. His once goldish hair was now mithril-like, and his eyes lost their cerulean tint, getting silvery, but Legolas still recognized him.

"Archaldir!" exclaimed he, dashing to the arrival. Archaldir, his father's closest friend! Archaldir, who had given him his first bow and watched the flight of his first arrow! Archaldir, whom he didn't hope to see alive again... Could it mean that the elves of the Mirkwood had managed to save themselves somehow? And his father…

Yet instead of welcoming his former pupil, Archaldir swiftly drew out a poniard and put if forward so quickly that Legolas had to stop lest it should pierce his chest there and then.

"Adar nin," whispered the elf in a disappointed tone, "what does it mean? It's me."

"I see it, hen nin," answered his father's friend, and his endearment sounded ruefully and contemptuously, "But I'm not afraid of you. I'm tired of being afraid of you. Though it seems that even your servants," his poniard pointed at the dead orcs, "are not too respectful with you now."

Legolas knit his brows in complete bewilderment. Afraid of _him_? _His _servants? It was as through everyone was insane in this world… Meanwhile the blade slowly returned to his bosom, resting exactly there where moments ago was sliding the orc's knife.

"It's strange that you are so defenseless," said Archaldir almost bitterly, "I assume _it _has betrayed you. Hasn't it? Though it doesn't matter now. Prepare to meet your death, hen nin, for if it is possible to kill you with a simple weapon, I will never allow anyone but myself to do it, however painful it might be."

"Why?" Legolas's lips were dry, "What have I done to you?"

A vehement spark glinted in the silvery eyes.

"What have you done to me? What have you done to _us_! What have you done to this land, you, the disgrace of our people? I loved you as my own son!"

The blade was trembling, and Legolas felt it penetrate deeper and deeper into his resisting flesh. Blood was streaming down his torso…

"Adar nin!" implored he, catching at the wrist of Archaldir, but knowing that he would probably have to yield. There was no way to disarm his friend and not to hurt him.

"Don't you dear pronounce it!" exploded Archaldir with rage. Legolas sensed the dagger scratch against his rib, "I don't know what powers brought us together now and why you appear to be so weak, but I swear that from now on you won't harm any of those who inhabit Arda. I'll free them from your black will, Legolas, the Ring-bearer! Legolas, the Parricide! Legolas, **_the_** **_Dark Lord_**!"

* * *

**_A/n_** _Here it is, just as I promised. :o) Reviews are very-very-very welcome. Please-please-please. I've already bought a flak-jacket. _

"_Adar nin" – "my father", "hen nin" – "my child"._ _Somehow these addresses seemed suitable to me. _

_Adamanta._


	11. Lie, only the lie and nothing but the li

**Disclaimer: **Don't own it.

**Author's note: **I get more and more upset… :o((( You are unfair…

I'm sorry if it is dull.

**ZELINIA: **Wow! Thank you, thank you, thank you. :o))) When is your new update?

**Faerlas: **This chapter is a little less eventful. So that you wouldn't lose your breath anymore. :o))) Have a happy trip!

**Neniel Sildurien: **Thank you for the review and for C2. Sorry for having been so slow – University, the end of the fourth year. Even our summer vacation is poisoned by a lot of things to write, read and work out. I guess you know it as well as I do. ;o)

**Chapter ten.**

_**Lie, only the lie, and nothing but the lie. **_

The blade in his chest was scalding, but the pain seemed distant, somebody else's, like it was not him to be wounded. It receded, devoured by wild astonishment. Though his hand continued to clutch at Archaldir's wrist with the persistence of the wolf's jaws, his mind was hardly aware of that.

The end of the tale appeared to be quite different from what he had imagined it to himself.

There was no Noble Prince, perished in the battle for his land. There was no Silly girl, mourning him and fighting with herself not to betray his memory by falling in love with another.

Nobody died.

But there was the Noble Prince, who somehow managed to obtain the Ring and caused all this chaos. The Noble Prince, who renounced his nobility to ascend the throne of evil and be crowned like the Dark Lord. The Noble Prince and … his lover?

Wasn't it Gwirith to tell him that the death collected all those who hadn't agreed to serve the dark side? And she was alive, in spite of all those years, while she was supposed to be the first to die, being the closest person to her Legolas, when he let the almighty jewel embrace his finger and the smile of a new-born malice dawned upon his serene elven face.

Did she cry? He knew she did.

Did she run? Did she try to escape or did she yield at once? What was she, she, who walked freely through the shambles with her pockets full of gold and her sneer full of poison? _His_ servant, _his_ spy?

_His_ mistress?

It occurred to Legolas that he couldn't even tell Gwirith had deceived him. She told him what their destination was. He was led to Mordor with his eyes open. It was his choice – her conscience was as clear as a lambent icicle. Whether she was ordered to bring him there, or decided to gladden her lov… _master_ on her own – he went after her voluntary. She must have been mocking at him up her sleeve.

Why was it the only thought that made him cringe? She was leading him to death!

And now he will find his end in the person of those who were intoxicated with their thirst of revenge over her … _patron_.

Eru, when everything is finished with him, both sides will be disappointed.

Legolas's lips curved. He slackened his grip, and stepped back, still chuckling like a madman, till his back brushed against the arrows behind him. A strange sound broke from him – and before his innocent executioners understood its nature, Legolas had been shaking with loud and artless laughter.

He was rocking back and forth, squeezing his head and sobbing with strange, twisted mirth. He growled, hurling his laughter into the faces of all those who were standing around him. Staggered, puzzled, malicious faces. He couldn't stop. He didn't want to stop. All he wanted was to laugh himself to insanity, so that nothing could trouble him anymore.

His new friends probably thought that he had already succeeded in that, because one of them lowered his bow and asked in a husky youthful whisper:

"Is he mad?"

"Don't let him fool you," snapped back Archaldir, never taking his eyes off sniggering Legolas, "It's a trick."

Suddenly one more bow came down. Its owner slowly approached Legolas. His studying glance ran over the figure of the elf, and flared up with distrust.

"It's not him," said he quietly. Archaldir jerked up his head. His brows met at the narrow bridge of his nose, turning into one threatening broken line.

"What do you mean?" inquired he, tense and horrent obstinacy flickering in his voice, "Has Eru clouded you eyes? Look at him!"

"I do look. And I don't see the thing I must. Where is his scar?" returned the debater, making one more step. Now he was standing between Archaldir and his soon-to-be victim. Legolas, benumbed by the events and discoveries of the last hours, with a habitual, out-of-body calmness of a war-leader marked that it was strategically the worst position a warrior could chose – showing his back to such a dangerous enemy, as they thought him to be. He unexpectedly got angry at his defender. So that's what is left of the guards of Mirkwood… A handful of credulous fools.

Though was he to judge, being one of them…

At the mention of the scar Archaldir gave a start. Murmur arose from the circle of elves – they forgot they weapon to step up to the prisoner, all the glances chained to his right cheek. Unconsciously Legolas lifted his hand to his face, as if expecting to find there the mark, which they were searching for so desperately, but at the same moment woke up and interrupted the movement. There was no scar. There had never been any, and who, if not he, was aware of it better than anyone else?

"It's impossible," whispered Archaldir. However, his former certainty was gradually leaving him, "I've left it to him myself."

"He must have got rid of it…" supposed somebody hesitantly.

"He couldn't," another voice weaved into the argument, "He was cursed to bear it forever."

"Is he a vision?"

Fine faces became dark and worried. Legolas understood them – visions didn't appear from nowhere. If he were a vision, they all would be in great danger, in the same danger that watched for a shoal of fish near luring bait. They remembered the old tales too well.

With a scornful sniff Archaldir quickly ran his hand over Legolas's chest, the nail of his index finger painfully scratching the straight edges of the wound. Legolas jerkily clenched his teeth, but didn't utter a sound.

"He's bleeding," stated Archaldir softly, showing his blood-stained palm to his fellows.

"I am," Legolas was tired of being touched and discussed, "And what did it tell you?"

Something imperceptibly changed in a hard look of the older elf. Cruelty evaporated from it – he sheathed his poniard and motioned for the others to quiet down.

"Who are you?" asked he thoughtfully.

"I'm Legolas, son of Thranduil, the Prince of Mirkwood," the elves began exchanging whispers again, but Archaldir cut them short with a quick glance.

"Do you know me?"

"Not you," even knowing what mishmash he would provoke, Legolas decided to be frank. It was his time to astonish. They will do nothing to him while he was a mystery for them, "I know the Archaldir who brought me up."

Contrary to what he had expected, Archaldir didn't seem puzzled. His silvery eyes narrowed, yet now they were glimpsing with an odd sort of gloomy comprehension.

"And I'm…not the one?"

Legolas shook his head in the negative. Having considered for a moment, Archaldir pointed at the young elf, who was the first to argue with him.

"Do you know him?"

"I've never seen him before", responded Legolas firmly. His father's friend nodded, getting suddenly very interested in the toes of his boots and the ground under them. The rocky passage was writhing under the heel of deafening silence, which drooped over it.

"Bless the mirror of Galadriel, hen nin," said Archaldir apropos for nothing, "Bless it. It saved your life and my reason. Come."

Someone leaned to pick up his torn cloak, while the other warriors were hurriedly pulling the arrows out of the orc's bodies.

"Follow me," Archaldir walked for several yards and then dove into the cleft, he had appeared from some time ago. The elves slid after him, ushering Legolas into a winding path. They didn't force him to go, just clustered behind him so that there was no way back.

The path was narrowing – soon enough it became nothing but a thin cleavage between the rocks, passable perhaps only for a famished hobbit. They were moving with their faces towards the wall, and soon Legolas had to hold in his breath not to chafe the wounded chest against the scaly tumours of lichen. When it began to seem that they would stick there like the withered petals, forgotten between the pages of a read-up book, Archaldir halted and set his foot against a formless stone, projecting from the rough handmade ashlar. The stone noiselessly caved in…

"Jump!" commanded Archaldir, pushing the elf forward. Legolas instinctively turned his head, expecting the impact with the solid wall, but the stones crumbled down under his weight, and he clumsily flew through the meandering, earth-smacking burrow into the large hall.

"I told you to jump", observed Archaldir, having flawlessly landed near, while the fallen one was rising to his feet and shaking the soil off his clothes. Legolas shot him an irritated glance, yet the angry retort stuck in his throat when he suddenly discovered that they both were watched with the hungriest attention by a crowd of elves, who were filling the hall. And the hall itself wasn't so unfamiliar to him, as it appeared at the first sight.

Wide, lavishly carved columns rose above him – their capitals disappeared somewhere in the foggy bowl of the endlessly high ceiling. Torches and candles illuminated the lancet archways, and the stones were smooth like the finest elvish silk. The fretted walls still kept some of the gems and jewels, spent on their incrustation, though many were gone, leaving deep black nests, cracked as if the precious things were plucked out of them with a knife.

"Welcome to the chambers of Moria," his guide made an inviting gesture, "Raised by Dwarves, inhabited by Elves."

The crowd split in two, as Archaldir moved across the hall, leading Legolas to one of the arches. Vigilant gazes were following their every step, but none of the elves stirred, while they were passing by.

Legolas counted seventy of them – men, harsh-eyed and clad in chain-armors; women – dressed like men and not inferior to them in dignified bellicosity. The air was charged with simmering rage and hatred…

"This way," Archaldir opened a massive oaken door, and Legolas slipped in, feeling ripped into shreds by the intensive stares, sent on to his back.

"And now," calmly said the attendant, "You will tell me everything."

* * *

Archaldir never forgot that day. It chased him in nightmares. It corroded his soul. The beginning of their downfall. The end of Mirkwood.

Many and many months passed since the day the heir of Thranduil left the halls where he had grown up. Days of waiting gave place to restless nights - the news, coming from Rivendell and Lothlorien, held more despair with each change. The King was ageing hundred years an hour.

The Fellowship had to reach Mordor already. Nobody knew how much of its members survived, but the hope was alive. Still, time was running by, bringing no long-expected peace… Little by little even those, whose faith in the grace of Valars was boundless, had to resign themselves to the obvious. The Prince won't return. They were losing the war.

And once, when they had finally managed to persuade Thranduil that further waiting was futile, and they must move to the Sea while they still could, the gates of the castle swept open to let in ragged, pale, weary, but triumphant Legolas.

"I won it," that was his greeting.

The Prince was in a hurry. He refused to have rest, he didn't change his clothes. Instead of that he insisted on a private talk with his father and Archaldir. How could they reject his request? For them he had risen from the dead and had come back with the victory – he deserved all the time of the world.

Alas, they didn't notice how little there left from the pure and fiery Legolas that had said them his farewell so long ago. And then it was too late. Archaldir understood that the moment his pupil took off that strange leathern glove, enfolding his right hand, and the cold shimmering of a golden ring reflected in his exultantly blazing eyes.

He tempted them. He offered them power – power over the whole Arda. They would make it pay for allowing Sauron to conquer it, he told them. They would show everyone what the real greatness was.

His fingers were clenching at the invisible sword-hilt. He was ready for a battle.

Archaldir still reproached himself for not having predicted what happened then. Thranduil suddenly sprang up to his feet – a real sword appeared in his hand. His son sprang back, taking out the knife. That instant Archaldir regretted having taught him to throw it so neatly. The King staggered…

Archaldir threw himself between them. He didn't hesitate as to whom he should protect. The blade whistled and hewed the Prince's cheek from the mouth-corner to the ear. Legolas hissed, but soon his grimace of pain turned into a wry sneer. He flapped the edges of his cloak and disappeared, leaving only a peal of wicked laughter, which died down in the high chamber vaults.

And the next day hordes of orcs assailed the marches of Mirkwood.

Mere two hundred elves contrived to escape after it became clear that they were powerless against the dark forces, growing stronger with every day. The runaways wandered along the land, watching its inevitable devastation. They died in tens. At last they descended into Moria and settled there, from time to time coming up to the surface in search of their survived kinsmen.

But this trophy went beyond their wildest expectations.

The kid was lucky that Archaldir didn't yield to his first impulse. And even luckier that his story was listened to and believed. Partially. Brought from another world, lost, starving. The last statement looked more truthful. The first one would have been laughed at, if not for that half-playful agreement to glance at the famous mirror of Galadriel, Archaldir had once given. Two visions there were, that didn't let him murder this boy there and then. Two visions made him suffer this foolish talk, reeking of lie…

He inquired the newcomer about his past and his childhood, about the war. He called names to make sure this Legolas knew them. The stranger, however, never slipped, and Archaldir, raged by each failure, asked again and again.

Some of his questions remained unanswered – the Prince merely shrugged his shoulders with an apologetic air. He seemed quite sincere. None of the traps, so carefully prepared by Archaldir, confused him. He didn't notice them or pretended that he didn't. He was curious about their living in Moria. He kept somber silence, while Archaldir was narrating the chronicles of their defeats. His forehead got covered with lines of wrathful woe, when he heard about Thranduil's death.

Everything spoke in his favour, except for the one detail, which didn't let the experienced and acute politician – the name, often applied to Archaldir both by friends and enemies – forget his suspicions and trust the newcomer completely.

His interlocutor had demonstrated all the proper emotions. Except one. Surprise. He grieved, but his grief was tinted with resignation. Except for that "jovial" outburst during their meeting, nothing testified to his being unprepared for the news. And the more Archaldir watched this new Legolas, the clearer it was that someone had already acquainted him with at least half of the truth. Unless, of course, he lied about his strange journey from the other world. Archaldir tapped his long finger against the hard curve of his chin. Lady Galadriel warned him that visions, shown by her mirror, may never be realized. Or may be interpreted in a wrong way.

"I'm sorry for your companion," said he, evenly enough to make it sound an occasional remark. Legolas started, the baited expression flitting through his eyes. But Archaldir's face showed only calm compassion, so well-adjusted, that he relaxed again.

"Companion?" echoed Legolas at last. The older elf smirked inwardly – he had always belonged to those who prided themselves upon a shrewd guess and an artful step. And though the question-answer he had received confirmed one of the unpleasant surmises of his, he still congratulated himself on not having lost his former craft. The next enquiry followed the same line.

"I suppose he was killed by the orcs. Wasn't he?"

Yet he had to be disappointed. Instead of getting more confused, Legolas settled down. There was barely noticeable relief in his reciprocate smile.

"I was alone," answered he, dauntlessly meeting the keen gaze of Archaldir.

"But someone led you here," the latter couldn't keep in his annoyance. Legolas continued to look at him, as his arms slowly went up and crossed themselves on his chest. Archaldir knew this gesture. Little Legolas often did so, having committed a silly trick and not wanting to confess it, as caught. Grown-up Legolas lied with his arms folded – lied or tried to conceal his feelings.

"I was alone," repeated he obstinately.

"And what brought you to the gates of Moria?" asked Archaldir jauntily, studying his nails as if they were more interesting than the elf in front of him.

"I was heading home. I needed to find out if somebody survived. The usual way was too dangerous," Legolas was losing his temper. The more chances there were that he would make a mistake.

"Who told you it was?"

"Everyone tells it," that was a full nonsense. Everyone would rather strangle any elf they met, than would help him. And the assumption about his having been led by the elves was ludicrous, considering quite an obvious reason. There were no elves not to recognize their former kin, and the present Dark Lord by sight.

That proved that Archaldir was right, having spared the life of this Legolas, for he wasn't the one to be punished for all their sorrows and losses. That Legolas wouldn't use such a justification. But _this_ Legolas was dissembling… With a bitter clarity Archaldir thought that he wouldn't trust him anyway, be he a thousand times frank… One disappointment was enough.

"Very well," he smiled and stood up, showing that the audience was over, "You must be tired, hen nin. I'll ask the guards to find you a place to rest and something to eat. Don't judge too severely – our food is modest. "

"The dinner, shared with a friend, is always rich," Legolas put forward his hand, which Archaldir shook with feign cordiality, "Thank you, adar nin. I understand that I couldn't count at it. I'm fortunate that I met you."

"So am I," muttered Archaldir quietly, "So am I".

He opened the door himself and nodded to one of the elves, standing in the hall, to follow the guest. The other entered, obeying the slight wave of their leader's hand.

"Send someone to the place we've found him in," ordered Archaldir, when the door behind Legolas closed, and his steps ceased being heard, "Search it over, each span of it. If he was not alone, I must know who accompanied him."

"What if we find someone there?" inquired the warrior dispassionately.

"Bring him to me," responded Archaldir with a grim chuckle, "In case he is dead, I want to see his body".

* * *

Why did he lie? For the hundredth time Legolas cursed himself for his prompt decision – not to tell anything about Gwirith. He couldn't give himself an account of the inane thoughts that led him to such a conduct.

He was treated with the perfect civility. The separate chambers were at his disposal. His wounds were bandaged. He could have gained their credence. And he lied… It will take Archaldir no more than half an hour to expose him.

He tried to imagine how he would explain his deceit. He had to think about his own life, or what was left of it.

But whatever straw of an idea he was grasping at, it was breaking in his hands, returning him into the flow of obsessive reveries. Reveries about her.

Each time Legolas closed his eyes, he saw her, dragged away by the Rider. Her scream was ringing in his ears, shrill and pleading.

If she served the Dark Lord, why was she captured?

He knew he shouldn't justify her. She didn't deserve that. She wanted his death.

Yet she didn't leave him in Rivendell. And didn't betray him in Hollin.

And her kiss was burning on his sore lips…

Eru help him, why was she captured!

For several minutes Legolas was sitting still, his forehead set against his clenched fists. His chest rose and fell, letting out a long steady breath. Then he stood up, gathered his poor belongings and the remnants of his dinner, wrapped up in a new cloak, which was left by one of the taciturn guards, and crept out of the room.

His respite in here was over. He had deprived himself of it due to his own folly.

And due to his own folly he was going to continue his path, or rather begin a new one. For Gwirith.

* * *

A young guard at the gates of the dungeon yawned and irritably rubbed his tired eyes, fighting with the gentle assertiveness of the upcoming sleep. The watch bored him to death – in his memory nothing ever happened when he was in patrol. He would rather join all those who crowded in the hall, gossiping about their unusual guest. It was rumored that the elf they had brought today was a twin of that betrayer Legolas. Not that the guard had the chance to see the Prince in person – before the War his family had lived too far from the castle of Mirkwood – but curiosity needs no redundant fare to ignite, and the elfling was fidgeting of impatience, waiting for the minute when he would be changed by somebody else and would have an opportunity to see the stranger with his own eyes.

A slight draught swayed the flame of the torch – the elf shrank, bringing the fire dangerously close to his face. It was so cold in the cave that he didn't mind even singeing his lashes, if it could help him to get warmer. Curse the dwarves who dug this bottomless grave. Ugly greedy moles.

The draught became stronger. Something rustled behind his back – light like a breath, and swift like a bird's flight. Whipping around, the elf saw a still ghost, which had grown out of the thin air. A quavery light snatched from the darkness a large, horrible bruise on the bloodless skin of a maidenly face.

The guard had no time to be surprised, no time to be frightened, when the ghost brusquely lifted its arm. In the next moment the shattering blow smashed his temple, striking him down.

The torch fell out of the unclenched fingers, and was caught up by another, and a much firmer hand. Graceful feet stepped over the body, which looked almost as inanimate as the stones under it. A bloody cobble lay at the golden-haired head. The elf uttered a small moan…

"Have some rest," mockingly advised the ghost, and slunk away, taking off the poorly smoking torch.

* * *

_A/n: Review it, if you are inclined… I'm lazy if I'm not_ _encouraged. Very lazy. :o)_

_Adamanta._


	12. The eye of the storm

**Disclaimer: **Don't own "Lord of the Rings" and there's nothing to add.

**Faerlas**Although you've read it, I cannot leave you out of mentioning. :o)))) I'm not a gwumpkin.

**ZELINIA: **Realistic reasons are the hardest part of it all. Thanks for staying with me.

**Neniel Sildurien: **Here I am at last… As fast as a snail. :o))) Anything new at LiveJournal?

**Elven Script:** Hi! Thank you very much – you cannot imagine how pleasant it is to hear this. The fic is twisted, I agree with you. I didn't want to write a common parody, in which only the MS character is ridiculed. To denounce the whole conception is much more interesting. I'm glad that you find it worth reading. :o)

**legos-r-Hot** You made my day - thanks. :o) And you know – if you really have a good idea for a story – don't pay much attention to criticism. After all you have your right to post whatever you want. I'm sure that if you go on, you'll find your readers. Or try to change the composition and insert the main zest of a story into the first chapter, so that everyone could see that your plot is far more original than they supposed it to be.

**Chapter 11.**

_**The eye of the storm**_

_Is it the Hatred, who is trying to love?_

_Or is it Love, who craves for feeling hatred?_

_I. Severyanin (translation again) _

The corridor was still and obscure, like a crypt. The frozen silence was disturbed only by the faint rustle of bat's wings – scared by his presence they were leaving their nests, and their shivering shadows timorously scampered along the walls, covering the stones with intricate dark-and-light tracery.

The idea of creeping through the hall was declined at once – instead of that Legolas turned to the opposite direction and prowled deep into the belly of the dwarves' sanctuary. At first all the torches, lining the passage, were alight, but as yards stayed behind the elf, the ranks of their coiling tongues were thinning out, and after a quarter of an hour he found himself in affable mild darkness.

He was not chased – no steps were heard behind him. They had probably failed to notice his absence yet.

With each turn the walls were losing their decoration, and the corridor was rounding, looking more and more desolate. Heavy drops of water were falling down from the ceiling, the resonant chime flowing into the hoarse murmur of the draught, which was stealthily drifting along the concave floor.

His sole touched the ground once more, and he suddenly stood rooted to it.

The echo of his step split as though two boots had shuffled against the stone plate at once.

There was something behind the monotonous drip – someone's hushed breathing, and trembling in a strained body, invisible even to his sharp eyes. The dark was watching him. His foot went up and down again. And just like that first time the sound bifurcated.

Slowly, trying to refrain from jerky movements, Legolas turned his head. But the corridor was empty and lifeless. Whoever was playing with him from the sheltering gloom of the winding pass, he was hiding in front of the elf.

Step…and dry ruffling of cautious feet. It wasn't an orc. Orcs never hunted alone and were far too primitive to track down their game in such a fastidious way.

Step…and light whistling of material. It wasn't an elf either. The elves were left behind him. They wouldn't disperse their strengths now.

Step…and nothing. Having forgotten how to breathe, he was desperately listening to crisp and tense stillness.

And there came… Fainter than whisper… Shorter than a sigh.

Something, he couldn't expect to hear. Not in this place. Not now.

"Legolas…"

His heart twanged and froze still, like a torn bow-string. That voice…

One of the niches, gnawed out in stone by generations of miners, dimmed up. Somebody slim and lissome slipped out of it, tangling in a too long cloak.

Legolas drew forward, but the name, which was willing to be released, died down on his lips as the flame of the upraised torch spilt over the figure, making its features clear and distinct against the dungeon blur.

The left side of her face was purple. Somehow the eye remained untouched, but everything else merged into one dark spot with crimson strokes of scratches. Blood had parched on her crashed and swollen mouth. Something was wrong with her left arm – wrenched at a strange angle, it was lifelessly hanging along her body.

His blood was suddenly too hot for his veins. They melted, relinquishing the wave of fervid shiver, which swept down his chest and shattered into myriad of biting pangs. His smile perished, not having been born.

She couldn't have been here. But here she was – alive and almost safe. And on his way again.

"Come on!" ordered she, impatiently waving her touch, "Hurry up!"

But Legolas stayed motionless. She was beautiful, thought he. Even now, when her outer frame had suffered so many injuries. She was beautiful, brave and loyal, wherever her loyalty lay. Why had he always believed that the darkness could sprout only unsightly traitors?

And why deny the obvious? Deep down he ceased doubting in her intentions the minute Archaldir claimed him the Dark Lord. It was bitter, it was painful. So painful, that he was searching for every possible reason to excuse her… He had lied for her. He had practically sacrificed himself at the altar of her love. He departed for Mordor, having blindly persuaded himself that she was in danger, that she needed him. And for the sake of what? Of being forgiven for what he had done so long ago? Another lie. It had stopped serving a justification of his absurd faith in her impeccability. He hadn't just imagined his attachment to her to make up for his filthy crime, as her had thought – as he had tried to think. There was immeasurable abyss between the feeling of guilt and remorse, the image of the dead girl brought him, and rebellious surrender, he suffered in the company of his guide. Between the wish to cherish and protect, and desire to fall on his knees and pray to be smiled at. He learnt to live without his Gwirith – he grieved for her, but he survived. And with the years the grief blunted, leaving only the fear of himself, dissembled in the deepest corner of his being. Legolas suddenly remembered the last phrase, she had heard from him, before the blade found its way to her innocent heart. _I shall hate myself till I die… _He was egoistic even in his sorrow. Why hadn't he said "I love you" then? The answer was clear as daylight – he wasn't thinking about her. Only about his own disarray at meeting his dark side, which he had never suspected to exist. He had left that girl in the past while she was still alive. He kept her in his mind – she was a scar, marring his pure conscience. And yet all scars could be hidden under clothes and forgotten until their bearer undressed.

This Gwirith didn't content herself with such destiny. She plagued him. She crept into his body and soul. He was ill with her eyes, her lips, her childish wrists. Her cruelty didn't repulse him. He reveled in self-denial. He perceived the strangely alluring taste of hoping beyond hope. She lingered inside, she intoxicated, she enlivened him.

He loved her.

He had loved her.

She shouldn't have come back – he would have saved her pains, bringing himself to the slaughter. He would have died loving her. But she had deprived him even of that. It seemed like his life had dripped out of him together with her, and he became nothing but an aching hollow shell, open to all winds.

Gwirith was saying something, obviously impatient to lead him away. The elf didn't hear her.

Venom gradually began to fill the emptiness inside him. Nothing bound him to this tainted creature, except for his treacherous longing, and thanks to her he had managed to break this tie. He was murderer – and he will murder again. This time it made perfect sense. They were at war, and she was no better enemy than the most despicable orc. And then he will return to his kin and fight shoulder to shoulder with them.

A dangerous sparkle ran along the slender sting of his knife. Gwirith fell silent, her eye-lashes flying up for one elusive instance.

"I should have been ready for that," said she at last, slowly and despondently, "They told you everything, didn't they? About … Legolas."

"About the Dark Lord?" Legolas tried to sound indifferent, but his strained voice betrayed him.

"About the Dark Lord," though Gwirith never cast a glance at the knife, he felt that she was watching it, "You think that I'm a liar… Believe me, I…"

"No."

Confusion drew a hard vertical line on her forehead. Legolas couldn't hear her breathing anymore. The contours of her silhouette changed – if she were a beast of prey, he would swear she was preparing for a deadly jump. Let it be. He was as ready for it as she.

"And what are you going to do after you get rid of me? Persuade yourself that you did a favour for the poor oppressed elves? Believe that you were a fighter for the good and justice?"

Her words were oozing with scornful curiosity.

A spiteful smirk was his only answer. She won't gain her end now. He had studied her, and was anticipating the coiling of a baited cobra. It would entertain him.

Yet the girl unexpectedly changed her mind. Her shoulders went down. Rage ran out of her, as if she was a broken phial. She closed her eyes and uttered a defeated sigh.

"Very well," whispered she, calmly moving aside to put her torch into a rusty hoop on the wall, "Do it. Render me a service."

That was unpredictable - Legolas gave a start, persuading himself that his ears had played a cruel trick on his addled mind. But his hopes were not fated to come true. Gwirith made a quick step to him, and he shrank back, oblivious to her being unarmed. Her healthy palm lay over his cramped fingers, forcing them to bring the knife against her vest. The tip came through the coarse leather with icy indifference. For some reason Legolas inwardly flinched at the sight, suddenly stifled with a sharp twinge in his chest, there, where a moment ago the frenzy flame had roared so loudly. His skin grew hot, and the heart, he had so presumptuously considered to calm down, made itself heard and felt.

Two thin needles of gilded fire were glimmering in the hazel irises. Gwirith didn't move, and they stood in silence, looking at each other and waiting, till she spoke again, her voice unusually soft.

"You cannot, can you? Will this way be more convenient?"

She let go his hand and turned away from him, tossing aside her hair to provide him access to her narrow and straightened back.

"Under the left shoulder-blade," advised she with a murderous composure, "Or here," her head tilted, opening a small pit at her collar-bone, "And be quick, or you won't be able to say that I was trying to escape. I don't want to stain your reputation."

Why didn't he feel his body anymore? The air, he drew in, was scorching. Madness… Pure madness to let his hand tremble so violently. To be spellbound by this smooth, unprotected curve, flowing down into a leather-clad shoulder. The knife was growing into his perspired palm…

"What are you waiting for?" shouted Gwirith all of a sudden, "Do it!"

The cry broke off, followed by a sharp sob, which cut through him, shattering his will into nothing.

The only thing he saw was the fragile whiteness of flesh, sheening against the alloy of bronze locks and coal-black collar. And the pearl-like tear, aflame with the imprisoned light of the torch.

Legolas was bending lower and lower to watch it slink down and halt in the slightly pulsating flexure, so poignantly and thrillingly close to him…

She was beguiling him again. Bribing him, like she had once done it to Boromir…

But his lips were already on her skin, drying up the precious drop with a wary, shivery kiss… The girl winced, taking a short breath, when his mouth traveled up her neck to tarry under the chiselled shell of her ear. She leisurely threw back her head, and Legolas felt her soft tresses brush against his face in a casual caress…

That was all it took to dement him completely. The blade fell at their feet, useless and forgotten, as his unleashed passion turned her to let their glances cross. He leaned in, capturing her at the wall, his body pressed against hers so tightly, that her heart seemed to be beating in his chest.

"Kiss me," seethed the elf hoarsely, "Kiss me, and I will forget everything you did. I'll believe you, I swear. Please…"

"Legolas…", Gwirith didn't finish, for he vehemently caught her lips, striving to elicit the same response.

They tasted of blood.

With a start Legolas came to his senses, getting keenly aware of a moan of pain, his harsh touch had extorted from her. He jerked back, stumbling over the knife, his whole being still shaken with agitation and rebelling desire. She brokenly raised her hand – he vaguely guessed that it touched her chafed mouth in the attempt to stop the wound.

"I'm sorry," muttered he quietly, burning with shame and disenchantment. He couldn't bring himself to look at her.

"I shall survive," whatever she said, her raucous voice only deepened his confusion.

The rattle in his ears was fading. What had he been doing before his mind darkened? What led him to these dank catacombs? The knife was still lying on the floor – he couldn't believe it had ever been gripped in his hand. Eru, what if he…

He had wanted to kill her… He had almost let it happen again… And what is worse – this time the decision was purely his. Nobody forced him into it.

How would he ever redeem this blame?

"I came back for you," remarked Gwirith at last. The elf nodded, his glance cast down in mortification.

"Won't you ask how I managed to escape?" enquired she, half-surprised, half-reassured.

He raised his sore eyes at her. Didn't she see that he gave himself up?

"You are right," murmured she more to herself, than to him, "You don't need to know it."

A swift motion brought her closer. Slender arms weaved around his body. She was embracing him… How could she do it after his callous treatment of her? Angry, humiliated, repelled at the undeserved tenderness, he still didn't have the strength to keep her away, and returned the endearment, feeling his heart shrink with black anguish.

"I'm sorry, too," her breath was warm at his stark skin, "I shouldn't have kept it from you. I was just afraid that you would refuse to go with me. I swear I didn't mean any harm. All I wanted was to help you."

Unimportant… Even if she took out a dagger and thrust it into his weary heart, he wouldn't break the circle of his clasp. What did her words mean in comparison to that?

"We must be leaving," her whisper was lower than the crackle of torch-fire, "If, of course, you are with me."

"I said that I would follow you," answered he as quietly. Nothing was allowed to break the moment of peace, they were sharing, "I don't take my words back."

"So generous…" teased she, gradually coming back to her usual sneery attitude, "Let me go, we cannot walk like this."

"He is not going anywhere."

Gwirith jumped on the spot. Her eyes frost over - bristling up, she broke loose from Legolas's grip. A bunch of flame flared up in several yards from the runaways, illuminating the speaker.

"He is not going with you," repeated the same familiar voice, "Not until I'm alive."

Once again Legolas cursed himself. He could have averted it, had he only been not so criminally absorbed in his own resentment and yarning for revenge. He could have noticed that they had been watched - or he could have gone together with Gwirith before the beholder found them. And now it was too late.

Yet Gwirith had already collected herself and didn't seem alarmed at having been caught.

"Oh," observed she contemptuously, "The noble bearer of noble wrath. My respects to you."

"Forgive me for not answering in like manner," hurled Archaldir through the clenched teeth, "For you I have no respect, milady."

A peal of cynical laughter commented his reply, turning it into an overly-exalted, but empty declaration.

"An elf of principle," chanted Gwirith, fearlessly smirking at his face, twisted in rage.

"I feel that you are used to dealing with the elves of some other kind?" parried her opponent with a scorn.

"Let me remind you that the "elves of some other kind" were brought up by you," hissed the girl coldly, "How does it feel to be the mentor of the black sheep?"

Evidently she had slapped too hard. Having uttered a furious growl, Archaldir dashed forward. In an instant Legolas comprehended what the end of this mad throw would be like. Without thinking he grasped Gwirith by the shoulder and flung behind his back, sheltering her with his own body.

He was not so experiences as Archaldir. He was tired. But he was younger and stronger. Their clash could hardly have finished in some other way. In a blink of an eye both elves were battered – yet one of them was lying at the feet of the other, coughing and spitting out fresh blood. His hand stole to the knife, which had earlier been dropped by his adversary, and Legolas threw the weapon away with the toe of his boot.

"We are leaving, adar nin," said he firmly, "I don't belong in here, and you'd better forget that you ever saw me. Farewell."

"Legolas, wait!" with obvious difficulty the older elf rose to his feet, and leaned against the wall, his forehead damp with sweat, "Whatever she promised you, don't fall for it. Her allegiance is not on this side. "

"What do you know about allegiance?" snorted Gwirith with disdain, "To whom are you allegiant, you, sage? To yourself? A laudatory kind of loyalty."

For a second it appeared to Legolas that he would have to stand another skirmish with his teacher. However, Archaldir was sensible enough to get the better of his anger.

"I don't serve the darkness," stated he plainly.

"Neither do I," she shrugged her shoulders with the air of tranquil perplexity.

"You live in Mordor and associate with the Dark sovereign," retorted Archaldir, knitting his brows.

Gwirith chuckled again.

"How does it deal with service? I'm not a dog to serve someone."

"Then tell me, my guiltless girl, why you are sill alive?" the enquiry was acid.

She didn't answer, contenting herself with an arch brow. Evidently celebrating his victory, the elf turned to Legolas.

"I didn't believe your story, hen nin. You couldn't have been alone. So I sent my scouts to the place of our meeting. I'm more than sure that I don't have to overwork myself in telling you what they discovered in there. The traces of you and a lady, who had been kind enough to leave some of her dark hairs on your cloak."

Legolas forced a crooked smile. He had foreseen all that…

"You were attacked," went on Archaldir in the tone of a zealous tale-teller, "She was taken away by a nazgul, and you were left in the hands of the orcs to be discovered by our watch. You know what happened here. But I know much more," with mock politeness he addressed to Gwirith, "Shall I tell him what occurred next, milady?"

Something told Legolas that it would be wrong to study her face now, for she might think that he had doubts in her. So he couldn't say whether she was confused or placid when she dropped an indifferent:

"Why not?"

"Very well," as to Archaldir, he was shining with gloomy triumph, "During several hours she was absent. Later another nazgul brought her back. She slipped into Moria from the side of the main gates, killed the guard – a young one, and then had probably been skulking along the passages until she found you. Am I right?"

Having forgotten his promise, Legolas was staring at his guide in stupor. Her glance reproached him, and she turned away, bitterly curving her lips, as if he had betrayed her.

"You were wrong twice, sage," replied she without the slightest sign of disarray at the denunciation, "I came back alone – no nazguls are behind me. And I didn't kill the guard. You must have been in a hurry and failed to make certain of it. He is in danger of having a few days of sharp headache, but nothing more. I never kill unless there's any need in it – and there wasn't."

"Do you admit that you were in Mordor?" mistrustfully asked Archaldir. The girl nodded assent, smiling like she found the interrogation highly entertaining.

"And you still ask for his trust?" the frown dimmed the rejoicing of her opponent, as he pointed at silent Legolas. This time Gwirith shook her head.

"I don't need his trust. I probably don't deserve it. If he says that he stays in here, I will turn around and leave. I'll let him fight with you and die with you."

Her chilly tone grated on Legolas. Somehow she managed to insult both of them by choosing it – she spoke to Archaldir, but clearly stated that his opinion mattered not. She informed Legolas about her position and offered him a seeming freedom of choice, while making him feel a disputable property, which deserved to be addressed to in no other way, except for by scornful implication.

"You are not leaving," snapped Archaldir, whose attention was arrested by quite a different part of the insinuation.

"Oh, please," drawled Gwirith indulgently, as if speaking to a little boy, who was brandishing his wooden sword in front of her nose, threatening to scratch her unless she presented him a candy, "Would you dare and stop me once you know who I am?"

"Would you dare and think that I let you go once you are in my home?"

"If I die from your hand, _He_ will raze your home to the ground. Consider it, sage. Does my life cost the lives of all those who believe in your wisdom?"

She got tired of playing. Legolas understood it at once. There was no purring of a sleeping tiger anymore – no mockery, no admonition, no bribe. Only cool, hard, matter-of-fact menace, coming from a creature with hundred dark years behind her back – years of cold-blooded war, considered intrigues and countless killings. Gwirith didn't lie to him, saying that she wasn't robbing the graves. She was filling them.

Why was she showing it off so thoughtlessly? He couldn't believe there was any possibility of her flying into such blind rage, that she forgot about him, watching her every step… She acted as though she had a pressing desire to make him take fright at her real face and refuse to go any further. Was it a wish to save him against her master's will?

Legolas ventured a stealthy look in her direction, and was immediately caught. It must have been a mistake. Unlike her voice, her face was as soft and smooth-lined, as when she had been hiding in his arms, persuading him of her guiltlessness. Could both of them be truthful?

A smile melted the contours of her lips, and all of a sudden the scales fell from his eyes. No, she wouldn't betray him. How did he fail to see it?

She needed him. She had lived in this world with the awareness of having destroyed it. Like him, she bore her blame, her pain, her remorse. May be he was a chance to pay back for it. To try and whitewash her love – at least a ghost of this feeling. That's why she angered when he got too close – in his passion she saw the passion of her Legolas. It was spoiling him, depraving him – and she deliberately destroyed it for fear that he wouldn't stop and thus would repeat the path of his twin. Then her sacrifice would lose its sense. She was ready to be a monster in his eyes not to let him fall. He could be absolutely calm about his future, for her persistence showed him how deep her obsession with his security was.

"I'm going with her, Archaldir," Legolas was surprised himself by the easiness, with which he pronounced it, "I'm a stranger to you. Don't risk yourself."

"I'd be glad to risk for you," Archaldir stretched out a pleading hand, attempting to hold him, "Stay with us, my child. You rightful place will be yours – I cede it to you. Lead us. Or stay as my son, if you don't want to battle. I fear for you."

Gwirith quietly snorted, muttering something indiscernible, but it produced no impression on the beseeching one.

"I told you to bless the mirror of Galadriel. I will bless it twice if you stay. Now I don't doubt that all I had seen in it is true – I believe you. You run a great danger. I can't see what makes you do it, but please, bethink yourself!"

Legolas began to waver again. It was already too much for him. He didn't want to hear anything else – he didn't trust himself. His inner balance was too unstable to accept more arguments. Come what may… One couldn't pray to Valars and Balrogs at once. Even if he took the wrong side, it was his fault.

"I've made my decision," he forced himself to be unflinching. The years of royal upbringing wasn't lost on him. Archaldir lowered his head in defeat.

"No," objected Gwirith suddenly, "You will listen to him. I want you to evaluate your chances soberly, and chose with your eyes open."

The elves started. Mistrust flashed across Archaldir's face, yet he restrained himself.

And Legolas was never so close to hating her as in this moment.

"As you wish," said he reluctantly, "Milady."

* * *

"_I don't want to offend you, Lady Galadriel, but the honour you offer to me is far too high."_

_A mysterious smile lingered in her eyes, the smile, which didn't touch the blamelessly dainty outline of her lips. A soul-selling sight. Varda in the flesh. Her presence was bewitching – one glance of hers was enough to enslave anyone. He hadn't evaded the fate of many others, lying at her feet in mute respect and idolatry. _

_Who was he to refuse when his goddess asked him?_

_He leaned over the carved bowl. Not to see his future – it bore no interest for him - but to catch one more glimpse of her divine reflection in the still surface of silvery water. _

_The mirror dimmed, filling up with weightless fog, which soon drifted away. His face frowned at him from the depth of the pool. The hands of his image were tightly closed around a bow simultaneously with two small and narrow hands of a richly-dressed elfling. The child was biting his lips with such a tense concentration as if his enemy was a grown-up orc, and not a training target, coloured loudly enough to be shot at a fair thousand of yards. _

_A warm wave spread over Archaldir's chest. He recognized that day – the first day when he handed Legolas a real bow. Soon the arrow will leave its nest and fly past the target to cause an angry snarl from his young lad. _

_The green plumage rushed through the air, and young Legolas darted after. That was something Archaldir didn't recollect. The following picture appeared to be even stranger – the arrow, he knew to be lost somewhere in the high grass of the clearing, was sticking out of a blooming sapling. The boy was guiltily pulling off his tunic to bandage the damaged tree. _

_Before Archaldir thought that it had never happened to them, the mirror had hazed again. He had the feeling of diving into the eyes of his pupil. When he came to the surface for the second time, the eyes still belonged to Legolas. But for some reason they were black and bottomless, without any radiance, inherent in the elven nature. His cheek was dissected with a ragged scar. He was smiling – Archaldir shuddered at this smile, for it was dreadful and perilous. _

_Somebody was standing on his knees before him, bending down in painful convulsions. The victim raised his head, and shock seemed to have shoved a stone into Archaldir's throat. The features were worn out and wry with suffering, and yet it couldn't deceive the one, who used to see them everyday for many and many a year. It seemed to be insanity._

_The kneeled figure was Legolas, too. And this Legolas was living his last minutes in Arda. _

_The image rippled – its edges commenced to smoulder. Soon it darkled, but in the last piece of it Archaldir managed to see the shadow of someone else, rising up behind the back of the triumpher. A woman's shadow… _

* * *

His pupil was staring into the darkness. An odd pang pricked Archaldir – a remorse-like sensation, quite inappropriate, taking into account that all he had said was meant to help the kid. Now he almost regretted his sincerity. Legolas looked so lost and dismayed. Like a condemned, devoid of the most precious of his hopes.

"I remember this tree," his voice was too husky to be compared with whisper, "I practically killed it then."

His limpid glance glided along Archaldir, obviously not seeing him, and halted at the proud posture of the lady.

"Say something," asked he quietly, and Archaldir realized that his story wouldn't change anything. _Defend yourself_ – sounded in the voice of his prince – _Give me the reason to excuse you. _It was a plea, not an accusation. Now she would invent the most unbelievable of tales, and Legolas will gladly let her put the leash around his neck.

But, to his surprise, the Morgoth of a woman didn't grasp at the sure opportunity to win.

"I've said everything, Legolas," responded she in the same impassively-belligerent manner, "Don't make me repeat myself. Either you go with me, or I leave."

The girl didn't cease surprising Archaldir. She was either insane, or played the game, which overstepped the limits of his orderly logics. He tried to place himself in her position – for some reason she had a desperate need in this Legolas, yet the ways she chose to obtain him were out of all reasonable considerations. To resign that you were leading someone to Mordor, to confirm that you belong to the realm of evil, to acknowledge exposure and after that still insist on being put faith in… It was in the least incredible.

On the other hand the elf couldn't deny that gossips about her deeds never declined a queer kind of moral code, she followed. In fact, nobody had any evidence of her having caused a battle or bloodshed. She didn't accept many desperate challenges to fight, though the assailants – he was one of them – knew that all she had to do was to nod at them to her master, and step aside letting him have his revenge. Once it was considered a point of honour to capture her, but now, looking back, Archaldir failed to give himself an account of what had caused that irreconcilable baiting. She hadn't handed the ring to Legolas.

Why was he deprived of a blissful ability to act on feelings and instincts? His inclination for cogitations was letting him down. Like many other thinkers, Archaldir sometimes lost the feeling of dark and light, so well-rooted in his kinsmen, and took the unforgivable liberty to judge only the strategy reasoning of this or that side. He knew where it would lead him, and shunned it. The one, who tried to understand the enemy instead of killing him, was inevitably doomed to forget what he was fighting for. And indeed, is there anything else but a chessboard and a battle of minds? Each one is for himself. These were the thoughts which turned a thinker into a betrayer.

He won't follow this path.

Archaldir mercilessly banished the doubts out of his mind. He was dealing with a foe – and he would prove it.

"Are you not afraid, that you Lord will punish you if he finds out that you are helping the one he's hunting?"

Go on, encouraged he inwardly, admit that the prince is hunted.

"My Lord doesn't even know he exists," easily returned the sleuth, "And even if he knew, I cannot imagine why he would hunt him in particular."

She was irritating Archaldir with her impregnable calm. He couldn't help but experience a twisted respect at the defense she was demonstrating.

"But you were attacked by a nazgul and a bunch of orcs. Don't tell me that they were not after Legolas," his uncertainty had shaped into a cross and hostile tone. Bad… Extremely bad. He had always been proud of his self-mastery, so why was it abandoning him now?

"The nazgul was sent after me," explained the girl as serenely, "And the orcs were ordered to murder the elf who shared my company. I suppose my previous game of generosity finally took its vengeance over me."

His perplexity must have been so obvious, that it set the riddle incarnate laughing.

"Tell me, wise Archaldir, how many of the lonely elves, you and your guards had found in this place, boasted that they had been chasing me?" continued she, once her ironical merriment had abated, "Ten? Fifteen? More? How many times did you all rejoice at this unbelievable luck? Could you really allow yourself to think that I was stupid enough to get into one and the same trap in one and the same area and still wander in here?"

Blood rushed to Archaldir's face, making him bless the half-darkness of the passage, which hid the first and the last blush in his life. He prayed to all the Valars for her not to have been aware of how right she was.

"I guess, _my Lord _saw me with Legolas and jumped at the conclusion that I had begun to help you openly," a brief chuckle escaped her bent lips, "He didn't give himself the trouble of finding out who the elf was."

She slowly unhooked the collar of her vest and drew the leather down her shoulders. In the ensuing silence Archaldir heard a sharp gasp, let out by staggered Legolas.

Occasional white gleams of intact skin paled against the burning background of scalds, wounds and bruises… The tight tissue cornet was brown with dry spots, the origin of which left no particular doubts.

"That was what he called me for. To remind me that I should be less obvious in my preferences. He might have forgotten how to love, but he is still matchless in jealosy – no matter if he's jealous of his rivals or his enemies."

The vest unhurriedly slid back, hiding the awful sight from their terrified stares. During the endlessly long moment nobody made a move. The girl was the first to stir.

"I must be going," muttered she tiredly, suddenly losing all her outward vigour, which had changed into exhausted indifference, "Good bye. Long live the Prince…"

But as soon as she turned away to leave, Legolas, who for all this time seemed no more alive than one of the statues, decorating the hall somewhere above them, seized her hand.

"Gwirith, wait," begged he, suppliantly cupping her disfigured cheek, "Forgive me. I'm with you."

She shrugged her shoulders again, and instead of answering unexpectedly appealed to Archaldir:

"Sage?"

"Go," said Archaldir unwillingly. He had already bowed down to her, "But promise that you'll save him out of it all."

"I swear with my heart-blood, that I will do everything to keep him safe," the solemn words rang through the passage in a thousandfold echo, and Moria responded with low hum, acknowledging itself the witness of the oath, "I'm the eye of this storm, sage. And the eye of the storm is the quietest place. Even you are not able to shelter him better."

He exchanged a short handshake with Legolas – a handshake more sincere that they had shared during their last talk. The girl watched them say their goodbye… Her hand he had to shake, too, though it didn't bring any pleasure to both of them.

"If you lie…" enunciated Archaldir dangerously, grasping at her wrist as she was going to break the touch, "If you only lie…"

Her dark eyes slightly narrowed, begetting a cruel sparkle. She didn't let him finish.

"I admire your attempts to save your face, Archaldir," she rapped out archly, "But if I lie, you are helpless. Farewell."

* * *

_A/N… I know, I know… It's long and mind-spinning. Sorry. :o))) _

_Hugs to all my reviewers – former, present and future ones._ _:o))_

_Adamanta._


	13. Taking wings

**Disclaimer: **Does everyone agree that writing disclaimers can irritate to no end:o) I don't own "Lord of the Rings". I bet if Tolkien saw what I had done to his characters, he would be vexed. :o)

**Author's note: **The last chapter was unforgivably full of typos. I'm sorry. In this light I want to say a huge thanks to **Faerlas**, who had wasted her writer's time to check over this one. :o))) It's very nice of her, since I lost faith in my own attentiveness. Friends like her must get medals.

**Neniel Sildurien: **I have no idea when you manage to read this, but I hope that it will be soon. Thank you once more for having supported me. I needed that. :o) As for Legolas… Tolkien never accentuated him to be overly heroic or overly powerful. He was just an elf, though brave and noble, but not too eye-catching. So I saw no reason why his feelings should differ with quite logical feelings of some other person under the circumstances. :o)

**Elven Script:** Thank you. :o)) I just couldn't restrain myself from inserting a little pinprick after such a solemn scene. It's pleasant that you appreciated that.

Some more words – and the chapter is yours. I had a fit of nostalgia the other day and was looking through the reviews for "The Blackthorn". There I came across reviews from **Rennjenn** and it occurred to me that it was probably her comment about "clueless girls in the Middle-Earth", that prompted the idea of this story… I wonder what she could say about my heroine… :o)))))) Anyway, best regards to her and to all my readers and reviewers.

**Chapter 13.**

_**Taking wings.**_

The supple waist strained in his arms, and once more he couldn't help but notice that the outward frailty of this body concealed iron muscles. But the hands, which for a brief moment leaned upon his shoulders, were lightweight, and no sound came when two boot-clad feet landed the solid ground.

"Thank you," muttered Gwirith, glancing back at the rocky slope they had surmounted. Once it must have been a staircase, for a more or less passable part of it kept the weak resemblances of the stairs, while the most of its length was splintered and wreathed in deep uneven dints. There had been a battle. The huge boulders, scattered at the bottom of the slope, seemed to be still growling in fury, which had been instilled into them by those who had once sent them upon the heads of their enemies. The stones were rolling down the stairs, crashing everything on their way to give place to flaring arrows. And somebody – could it have been Archaldir? – was losing his voice, crying out command after command, standing in the most unguarded place, for his each motion was to be caught up by his warriors.

Legolas frowned, attempting to determine the outcome of the event. Though many bones lay here, in the spacious hall, trifle of such could be seen up the stairs, and the upper landing was barren of any signs of the fallen, either elves or orcs. Everything told him that his people were victorious, but he could be mistaken.

"The elves won this fight, if you want to know," in some inconceivable way she had learned to read his mind. Her voice stirred the elf up, bringing him out of the past into the cold present, where it was grey, damp and deafeningly quiet.

"Were you in it?" asked he without any expression, being very well aware that if she had been in the battle, she would have probably stood here, under the deadly hail of rocks. It was a relief to see Gwirith shake her head, even though her smile reflected the full comprehension of his grim thoughts.

"I was not. Otherwise you would have had the pleasure to contemplate my mortal remains under one of these pebbles. The elves were in the advantageous position."

Her fingers lightly ran along the rough boulder. For a moment Legolas imagined the merciless stone trample her brittle frame, rubbing her into the floor and mixing her blood and soul with the foul flesh of some orc. In the name of Eru…He felt an intolerable desire to hit her hand off the immobile killer, as if it could hurt her even now, when the body of its last victim had long since turned into dust. There was some deep, ancient, tangible malice in the lines of its jagged surface – it was staring at the elf with two grayish hollows, which oddly reminded of squinted eyes. As well as the knob under them was distantly similar to a shapeless nose… Stricken by a sudden guess, Legolas brusquely leaned in to appear face to face with a stiffened snout, in which every feature presented the ugly mockery of what Iluvatar had drawn in the lineaments of his children.

"Oh, you've noticed," smirked Gwirith, placing a quick flick on the enormous forehead, "It's a troll - at least a half of a troll. They all are."

She was right – now the rocks, surrounding the elf, did not look so amorphous to him. He distinguished the outlines of giant legs and fists, huge torsos, once and for all covered with pock-marks of petrified scales, misshapen heads, like the one, upon which his companion had so carelessly rested her now reset elbow. The remnants of the sun-feast, by some immense efforts delivered into the heart of the underground to be used as a weapon against the creatures of their sort.

"Your relatives have an exceptional sense of humour," remarked the girl with the same approving chuckle. Legolas darted her a glance, full of cool deprecation. That was the gift of hers – to give the most irrelevant observations and to twist everything, that was not allowed to be twisted.

"You call it humour?" asked he slowly, pointing at the half-moldered edge of some garment, pressed down with the stone lump.

Gwirith, however, ignored the gesture, as well as the unambiguous intonation of the inquiry. He should have got used to it by now.

"I appreciate unusual tactics and decisions, whoever they come from," plainly explained she, "And that was fairly unusual. I almost regret not being able to express Archaldir my admiration."

Be the circumstances any different, and the elf would agree with her praises to his teacher. But now they jarred upon him, either with the sincere tone they were uttered in, or with the simple fact that they were uttered at all. Admiration… For him she had none. She had never condescended to compliment or at least thank him, though he deserved that. Instead she just took him for granted, like a part of her surrounding.

"Can you admire only his quick-wit? Is bravery and selflessness nothing in your eyes?" he was wounded, and sounded shamefully resentful, yet the girl seemed not to comprehend the ground of his grudge.

"I give these qualities their due. Yet I'm not sure that blind and impatient bravery distinguishes real heroes. Each sacrifice, especially if it is a sacrifice of life, must be well-grounded. Do you really believe that Archaldir wanted to die in here? He was ready to, I don't doubt him. But it was not his aim. His aim was to protect his people and to spare as many of them as he could. And he attained it, because he was shrewd and didn't require his warriors to demonstrate foolhardy courage. All honours to him."

Serious and sober-minded. Sometimes Legolas had an impression that her body was a refuge of countless spirits, different from each other. And when he got accustomed to one of them, it retreated into the shadow, letting another one flash out and tease him like a ghost-light among the realm of marshes.

"Don't you yourself run ill-considered risk by helping me counter to the admittedly invincible adversary?" he challenged this new phantom, falling for the beaten track of pretending that he didn't notice the change.

But the touch of candour had already faded from her, and once more he had to contest with his old acquaintance - sarcastic bravado.

"Alas…" her laughter was bitter, and still unfeigned, "For now I have no choice already. And I don't rush through the land, carrying you like a proudly upraised flag, so that everyone would evaluate our valour. Though I somehow fail to doubt that be it for you to decide, you would already be dead in the attempt both to get home safely and not to appear an escaping coward."

"I'm not as unartful as you fancy me to be," replied Legolas dryly, swallowing the poignantly hurt self-respect. He wouldn't give her the pleasure of seeing that her pinprick hit the target.

"I know it," the sharp tune of her voice softened, mercifully pouring several drops of balm into his fresh wound, "But then why do you keep behaving as if you are?"

He had nothing to say for that. Or rather he had, yet not for the love of all the Valars he was eager to reveal that weakness again. One qualm of mind-dimness was more than enough.

Thankfully, Gwirith was not waiting for his answer. In a tired manner she rubbed her eyes and drew herself up, making it clear that the halt was over.

"Come," said she in undertone, "Let them lie here."

The elf obediently followed her through the hall, which lead to another, where they had to walk, plastering themselves against the wall in order not to sink into the yawning mineshaft. He insisted on creeping ahead of her, with his hand firmly clutched around her right shoulder. No doubt, in case she slipped he could have held her without any regard to where he was standing, but he didn't intend to cause her needless pain by catching at her injured arm and wrenching it again.

Little by little Legolas began to recognize the place. He had once passed it, so long ago that the very memory of it had turned into the echo of a weird dream – one of those, which couldn't be called joyous visions or nightmares, for they were akin to numbness and left the leaden heaviness in limbs by awakening.

If his intuition wasn't failing him, their wandering through Moria was almost ended. The only thing that didn't let him rejoice over it was the direction of their pass. It had been troubling him for all that time, but he had been waving aside his suspicions, being sure that he was too mistrustful. Now there were no doubts.

"Where are we?" questioned he to confirm his guess.

"In several minutes we shall be in the fresh air."

She quickly seized his supportive forearm, as shingle slid under her feet with a dangerous rustle. Was it an accident, or was she trying to divert him from interrogation?

"You mean that we shall go out of the main gates? But won't it lead us to where we parted?"

"Not exactly," rejoined Gwirith somewhat irritably, leaving hold of his hand, "And, by the way, the main gates do not exist anymore. I'm surprised that you don't remember it – they were brought down by the Guard when the Fellowship entered Moria. You were present at the moment, weren't you?"

"But how would you…" Legolas cut himself off in the middle of the word, recalling to whom he was speaking. Of course, she knew it. She was there.

With the corner of the eye he caught the sad wrinkle at her smiling lips.

"You are as a bad of a listener as of a pretender, my gallant prince," murmured she in response.

And again he said nothing, as the reproach was righteous.

The cornice spilled into a narrow platform – the elf easily flew over the railing and turned just in time to catch Gwirith in the end of her jump.

"You could ask me to help," upbraided he quietly, not hastening to put her down. Against his will such instants pleased him. It was unaccountable luxury to perceive her weight in his arms and to know that this burden was trifle for him. To let her feel that he had enough strength to base at her feet if once she found need in a defender. And up to that moment he would take delight in saving her from petty efforts, no matter if she could waste them without much trouble.

Much to his secret triumph the girl tarried in the embrace, allowing him to feel the calm rising and falling of her chest. His heart gave a willful leap, as she bent forward, winding her hands around his neck. Her cheek brushed against his – warm and feather-soft touch, which sent a ravishing spiny tingle down his body.

"Will you help me to feel the ground again?" whispered she into his ear in a low, bewitching manner.

Valars…Legolas clenched his teeth to restrain a growl of disappointment. Such tempting tenderness, applied just to mock at him, cruelly deceived in his anticipation…

"As you wish," said he hoarsely. Smirking, she slipped out of his grasp and passed him round to dive into a black doorway. He tailed after, inwardly cursing himself for having yielded for the foolish desire to tease her. Where was his mind? And now he had deprived himself of the clandestine pleasure, he had been cherishing just a moment ago. No swearwords were enough to brand his folly.

The pitch-dark space devoured him. However hard he peered into the gloom, his eyes made out nothing but the casual blots of those objects, which caught the light from the mine. Yet he couldn't say for sure that they were not just figments of his imagination, whet by the temporal blindness.

"Here we are," her voice resounded so close to Legolas, that he instinctively started back, hitting his shoulder against something invisible, but unfortunately, quite tangible.

"The gates are supposed to be in front of me. They had been severely obstructed, indeed. However, partially the blockage was pulled down, when the elves arrived to shelter in Moria. It still seems solid, but there are several hidden passageways, which one fails to notice unless one knows where to search."

The darkness uttered a peal of dry crackles, and Legolas was blinded again, this time by the ray of weightless silver, having spouted from the aperture in the heap of crumbled stones. His guide was standing in the beam, breathing in the light air of the outer world. It struck him that she was quite calm, as if journeys like this were not out of ordinary for her. The confidence, with which she found the way out in the impregnable dark, spoke for itself. She had done it more than once. But…

"Gwirith?"

She turned her head and smiled at the sight of his dust-stained face.

"Welcome on the surface, Legolas."

"Haven't you told me that you were not acquainted with Moria?" inquired he without much hope for the answer. Gwirith bent her lips, but not angrily, like she had used to do it before. This frown was more pensive, than irritated.

"You don't cease amazing me, Legolas," murmured she musingly, "You memorize the minutest details of my speech, while not hearing the most important things."

"Then deign to repeat them for me, milady," his tone was matching hers in gravity.

The goldish eyes were studying him through the half-mast bars of the eye-lashes. It seemed to Legolas, that he almost read the thought, which was screaming and tossing and in these sparkling circles…

"It is no use," hurled Gwirith harshly, "You don't want to hear."

The outside met him with the bites of damp chill and one more surprise, as unpleasant as all the surprises in this land.

At the bank of the half-dried lake settled an abhorrent winged monster, large and scaly as a dragon. Its paw clutched the maim body of an orc, spreading the foul scent of death all over the glade. Having noticed their presence, the animal roared and clanged its free claws against the rock, which served it a nest.

Subconsciously Legolas exerted himself, preparing for another fight.

All of a sudden Gwirith stepped forward, her brows thrown together with irritation.

"Lith, why did you bring this piece of carrion? I told you not to move an inch away from here!"

The creature grumbled, bearing two lines of finger-sized fangs, and moved rearwards. Gwirith held her nose with the grimace of utter disgust. The stench was so strong, that Legolas's throat threateningly shrank, and mouth filled with sour taste.

"Drop it!" snuffled blanch-faced girl, pointing at the carcass, squeezed in the hideous claws, "Now!"

The orc fell to the ground and rolled into the lake-bed, followed by a plaintive whistle of the beast. The water swallowed the corpse with a hungry smack. Gwirith drew a breath of relief.

"That's better," forced she huskily, "Next time, please, have your dinner somewhere away from me."

"What is it?" asked Legolas, withdrawing the sleeve from his face, his hands trembling with deep-rooted, nearly subconscious aversion towards the clot of spikes and scales, which had settled itself in front of him. His enmity must have been reciprocated, for the gaze, which the monster fixed at his frozen figure, was dimly lit up by bestial spangle.

"Let's say it's my loyal steed," elucidated his companion, drawing nearer to the hissing creature, "It's Lith."

"You gave it an Elvish name?" Legolas was offended, "An Elvish name to this pet of nazguls?"

"You gave one to Morgoth," parried Gwirith, nonchalantly shrugging her shoulders.

_Lith _suspiciously sniffed her outstretched hand, and nuzzled into the palm, which was ten times smaller in comparison to its blunt neb. The girl scratched its low frontal bones, causing the monster shut the lids in the state of resigned bliss.

"I decided that since now you know my…," she faltered, as if hesitant as to the right word, "My position…, it would do no harm if I stop encumbering us with walking and return to my usual way of travelling."

Lith was grunting and fidgeting with impatience to receive another scratch. It looked sincerely absorbed by its owner, but as soon as Legolas ventured to get closer, its eyes instantly flung open, and it greeted the attempt with a thundering shriek.

"Careful," warned Gwirith, "She doesn't feel any sympathy towards Elves. There was the time, when she had borne you race, but it had lasted up to the day she had her wing arrowed through and we spent several hours in the mountains, guessing at who would feast upon us first – you friends or werewolves."

Her tone was imbued with such soft attachment, that the elf bit his lip, as something absurdly close to jealosy crept into his heart and lingered there.

"Give me your hand," whispered the girl, never ceasing to stroke her dread-inspiring animal, "Just very slowly."

With a tilted head the creature was tracing their guarded movements, eager to attack at any sign of danger. Gwirith forced him to touch a continuously jerking flat nose, and left his palm there, covering it with hers.

"The Elf – good," pronounced she distinctly, "Good."

The air cooled around their hands, when the slit-like nostrils widened, taking in the mixture of their smells. In the dead stillness Legolas clearly pictured to himself the amount of damage, Lith was able to inflict with a single snap of her fang-armed jaws. Finally, the creature snorted and arched her neck, pressing it against the ground.

"Mount her now," ordered Gwirith as quietly, "Don't worry, I watch her."

Did she believe that it sufficed a large slimy lizard to make him show the white feather? Granting the girl with a derisive smile, he swiftly leapt between the extended wings and bent down to aid her in climbing before him.

"I don't fly with you," she ignored his inviting gesture, "Two riders are too suspicious"

"How will I manage her, if you are not with me?" questioned the elf in puzzlement.

"You don't have to manage her," laughed Gwirith, "I will be in her paws. It makes no difference for her if she carries me on her back or otherwise."

"But you'll freeze there," objected he, willing to descend and cede to his guide her rightful spot, "Why don't you want me to take that place?"

"Probably because Lith will never drop me, while I wouldn't be so certain on the part of your safety. Besides, I strongly advise you to change into the cloak, you are sitting on now. Elves do not drive creatures like Lith, and those who do, are not inclined to dress themselves after the elvish fashion."

The garment was black, like the still surface of a lake at starless midnight, and as sleek as it is. Strange cold forged Legolas, when the fabric flowed down his shoulders, as though his elvish outfit was the last thing that chained him to the being he had once called himself. That Legolas was of no need there, where he entered, having worn the guise of nazgul. That Legolas was too weak for the events that were at store.

He had marched into the final circle of this journey and was determined to use his every chance on surviving.

"Hold tighter," recommended Gwirith, throwing a swift glance over his seat. He answered with a brief nod, and she dove under the brawny belly of Lith.

With a snarl, which sent the whole glade into trembling, the monster shot upwards, making the blades of the wind lash against his face. Anxiety swept over Legolas. What if his companion failed to grasp at the giant paws, and was left at the gates of Moria, alone and unarmed?

But the ground was lifeless, as he looked down in search of a girlish figure, desperately waving for him to return. So she was there, by his side, unattainable yet present…

The mountains became small and distant, and soon got lost behind the misty gauze. The sounds died off – the silence was impervious. Annoying. He barely restrained the desire to shout at the top of his voice, call Gwirith, sing. Anything to breach the deathly hush in his ears. It made him vulnerable and shrinking in deep loneliness.

As far as he could see, there was only dull mirror of the sky, shimmering with blank sunlight, and the fog below him, now and then ripped by two vast wings.

His hands gripped the useless bridle.

The day promised to be a long one.

* * *

He had already witnessed this passage – dark and narrow, filled with unknowable scent of horror. A flaring opening was teasing at him from the distance of many steps ahead. He dreaded it. He knew what was waiting for him there, in the heart of the flame-enveloped cave. _Who_ was waiting…

Still he didn't manage to get himself ready, when pale, frosty fingers weaved round his shoulder.

Legolas started, tearing himself out of the heavy slumber. Did he fall asleep? Unforgivable, criminal carelessness!

He was prostrate over the back of Lith, his cheek rubbing against the rugged skin. The clouds around him blackened, clothing the firmament with thick haze.

The elf shook his head, as the reality began to loom clearer to his fatigued eyes.

They were no clouds.

And he was not in the air.

Even before the smell of burning timber reached him, he had caught the sight of giant bonfires, which were rising at his sides. He must have landed just a moment ago – Lith was folding her wings, grumbling in discontent at the acid smoke. Gwirith stood at one of the fires, her hands stretched to the raving red tongues.

"You were right," said she without turning to face him, "I've frozen."

"Where are we?" the flame was so bright against the twilight sky, that the world outside the circle of light dissolved into complete darkness.

"Isengard."

Legolas dismounted the creature, who appeared quite satisfied with this circumstance. Gwirith made a slight gesture – and Lith noiselessly flushed up, vanishing out of view. The girl beckoned him to follow, and carefully slipped between burning columns.

"Who built the fires?" asked the elf, once the obstacle was left behind.

"The old man did it," she lingered at the door of the tower, which he remembered to be white and glorious in former days, "He's afraid that the trees are after him. Fool – the trees have all been destroyed by now."

The door reluctantly creaked, letting them in. The round hall bore signs of inexorable decay. Rich draperies had moldered, marble walls were lasted, dust smothered the luxurious tiled floor… Wooden panels had rotten, nibbled by time and insects.

Something stirred in the corner… Legolas flinched, snatching the knife from the sheath on his belt.

"No need," Gwirith raised an arresting finger, "He is of no danger. Not anymore."

A wrinkled, threadbare face for an instant showed itself between raw-boned hands. Dry, almost blue lips opened to produce a flow of incoherent words and hisses. The pitiful form it was – the old man in shreds of what had been a white chlamys, bent over a dingy sphere at his laps, whispering, pleading, begging… Saruman…

The most horrible end, which could have befallen wisdom, even if the wisdom was meant to work malice. The aged one was mad.

"Go up," she pointed at the stairs to her right. Still watching Saruman, who had set to rock back and forth over his treasure, the elf walked through the hall and trod the first footstep.

"Legolas!" hailed the girl suddenly. He turned round, waiting for the continuation.

"There are several rooms upstairs. Choose any and sleep your fill. I have some affairs in here."

He bowed his head and was going to proceed with his path, when her voice overtook him again, low and strained:

"Lock the door."

* * *

He woke up at a strange sound… Someone was breathing into his face, but he could swear with all he had, though he had not so much, that it was not Gwirith.

Legolas half-opened his eyes.

The tattered beard was sweeping over his chest. The old man hung over him, mumbling something aggressive and wildly gesticulating.

"Mine, mine…," words rattled in Saruman's throat, but he didn't stop muttering, "Mine, in my hands, mine."

"Get out."

Saruman darted a quick look at the door, and fear flashed across his features. He stepped back – behind him Legolas saw the horrent silhouette of his companion.

"I said – get out," Gwirith was slowly approaching the old man. Even from where his bed was, Legolas perceived perilous radiance, surrounding her figure. Having snarled in mad anger, Saruman ran out of the room, his rags flapping in time with his movements.

"Do the words "lock the door" remind you of anything?" inquired the girl acidly.

"I'm sorry," replied he with his head down. The late visit of the mad wizard was certainly his fault. He had been so tired that as soon as the bed caught his eyes, he forgot everything and collapsed on its welcoming surface, asleep long before his body touched the cover.

Gwirith sighed and silently sank near him, one leg pulled under her.

"It the last time you can have true rest," she yawned, having covered her lips with a sleeve, "Sleep."

He turned over to lie on his stomach. Mad Saruman, grey-haired Archaldir, dead Aragorn…

"Gwirith, what am I with the Ring?"

There came the long-drawn silence. When he started to think that no answer will come to appease his urgent curiosity, the girl spoke, and her tone was doleful.

"Great. Mighty. Unbending," she halted, taking a deep breath, "Cruel. Terrible. Irresistible…Gorgeous."

Her arms wrapped around the narrow shoulders. He wanted to touch her, to soothe the wound he had reopened…

"I don't even know what happened to Sauron," she was staring into the empty space – Legolas was aware of what pictures were coming unbidden through her mind, "The Black Tower just crashed, when you claimed your rights on the Ring… I … I couldn't kill you… Him. And he forbade me to die. I do not age. My injuries are transient. No chance to escape from my blame. He derided me and turned me inside out. He still does. But I didn't leave him, Legolas."

He suddenly remembered that night, when he first heard her story. Now there was the same frightening detachment in her voice, as if what she recalled had happened to someone else.

"You know, I spend a lot of time in the cave of Orodruin, over the very crater. The ledge which overhangs it is slowly shattering, gnawed by the heat of lava. I learned to predict when the next rock will collapse into that lake of fire. I stand at the edge, watching the crack grow wider and wider. But when it breaks off, I shrink and jump back. Coward… I hope that one day my jump fails…"

The elf remained silent, just letting his hand find hers and carefully stroke it in the darkness. Gwirith uttered a grim chuckle, but paid for the caress, leaning over to place a soft kiss on his cheek.

"Sleep," whispered she almost gently, "Forget my chatter."

There was one more question, he desperately needed to ask, yet she sounded so sad and exhausted, that he didn't have a heart to trouble her more.

He had seen his friends and enemies. He had heard about their lives and falls. And there was only one name, which had never been spoken through any of the tales.

Nobody told him what fate had stricken Mithrandir…

* * *

A/n: _More chapters – more twists and more action. I'd be very-very thankful if you reviewed… I'm getting a little upset about the lack of your comments. _

_Ada_


	14. Chased

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything, that is not mine.

**ZELINIA:** Don't worry. I love Gandalf, too. :o))) Thanks for reviewing.

**Elven Script: **Thank you. I'm glad you loved Lith. It came to my mind quite suddenly, and I couldn't get rid of it anymore. As for your brother – well, I could lend you the creature for several days to check it out… :o)))

**Faerlas**I was ashamed of making you read the chapters and then review for several times. :o)) So this one I decided to edit myself. I know the idea is probably a bad one, but one day I'll have to work and I doubt that you'll be there to correct my blunders. :o) Anyway, I'm always awfully grateful to you. Thanks.

And greetings to **Neniel Sildurien**.

**Chapter 14.**

**Chased.**

"Legolas!"

The voice was disturbing. And disturbed.

"Legolas!"

He stirred and frowned in his sleep, trying to banish the troublesome call from the fields of dreamless drowse, along which he was roaming.

The same obstinate voice uttered a curse, becoming only if heard from the lips of a drunken orc. Something about lazy elves in general and him in particular. Legolas seriously intended to ignore the outrage in favour of sinking deeper into the state that was gratifying in its insouciance and lack of any worries, when a flood of glacial water assailed his sleep-warmed face to make him jump in his bed, his eyes snap open.

Gwirith was either frightened out of her wits, or equally angered – there were no other ways to explain a savage glare, she granted him with, and the sharp curves of her brows, divided with a deep anxious wrinkle.

"Move!" hissed she, throwing away an empty flask. Her cheeks were as bluish-pale as her slightly trembling hands, "Or should I slap you so that you finally woke up?"

"Are there any less violent means of forcing me awake in stock?" his crisp throat garbled the sounds.

Gwirith shook her head, the motion reminding of that usual for young and untamed horses, bridled against their will and ready to fight for their freedom.

"Jokes are over," said she bluntly, "He knows."

A short second of comprehension gave place to unwelcome startle, soon changing into cool determination. After all, it couldn't have lasted forever. Their hide-and-seek was doomed to turn into an open confrontation, sooner or later. It might have been strange, but the fact that it had finally happened set Legolas at ease. There was certainty in it. It occurred to him that Gwirith had been right, noting his reluctance to escape like a thief under cover of night. Now everything was different. Now it acquired a taste of fighting, not fleeing.

"How?" asked he with a wonderful feeling of perfect composure. The girl narrowed her eyes, probably to hide a shadow of surprise, having appeared there at his calm question. It almost made him smile in a sudden surge of pride. She could say nothing – it was her glance that flattered him.

"It's Saruman," Gwirith extended him his cloak. She sounded much softer; Legolas vaguely believed, that had he demonstrated any signs of consternation, he would have been in difficult straits, dealing with her cross outbreaks, "I knew I shouldn't have left him Palanthir. But Le…, but _he _never tried to use the stone, so I thought it wasn't worth worrying… Now it's too late…"

A desperate note flitted in her steady voice. All of a sudden she threw her arms around him, clasping at him so tightly that he sensed her nails even through the thick cloth of his outfit. Only now the elf noticed, how strong a shudder shook her seemingly unbreakable frame.

"Legolas, I'm so sorry… I… ," her whisper was hushed by his hand, gently covering her dry lips.

"There," Legolas carefully wiped away a tear, which had drawn a moist line on her cheek. Her upraised face shone with such deep bewilderment, that his heart shrank in pity and tenderness. He hadn't ceased dreaming about such a moment – the moment when she would break and search for his protection. He had imagined the sweet triumph with which he would accept her weakness and guard her. Yet now, when the longed-for chance befell his eager being, he felt nothing but pain at the sight of her pain, and anger at the one, who had caused her torment.

"Don't despair, meleth nin," his fingertips lightly slid down her hair, smoothing them, then ghosted against her mouth – just to efface the sadness from their dainty contour, "He could find out only what Saruman knows, couldn't he?"

She slowly nodded, still strained and ill at ease, but already comprehending his thought.

"He saw me. But it doesn't mean he understood what he saw. Besides, I'm of no use for him, am I? So we run only the risk we had run. The time has shortened, still we have some of it at our disposal."

Gwirith took a deep breath, gradually coming to herself. Her grasp slightly loosened, and the former resolute sparkle lit up her flustered appearance.

"You are right," muttered she with evenness, amazing for the one, who had endured such obvious panic, "We have our advantage. For now…"

Having steadfastly shaken his hands off her shoulders, she ran to the high lancet window, which opened the way to the marble balcony. Her glance raced along the blurred mud of the sky, feeling over the dregs of the evening clouds. Before the elf realized what she was looking for, her lips had parted, letting out the piercing scream, different from all the sounds he had ever heard. The echo caught up her call and scattered it in the air, viscid from the smoke of the fires, roaring somewhere at the foot of Orthanc. The short-lived silence was torn by another shriek, but this time it was not Gwirith, it had come from.

"Jump," ordered his guide, as soon as the giant shadow settled at the crannied banisters, barely keeping its unsteady balance. The animal didn't object to being mounted in a hasty and violent way – infected by the anxiety of its rider, it was shivering, its agitated bawls abusing Legolas's sore ears. Gwirith leapt behind him, thrusting her heels into the scaly sides of Lith.

They were already leaving the might-have-been refuge, when she silently tapped him on the shoulder and nodded at something underneath their flying vessel as he turned his head to her challenge.

His rival had evidently considered Legolas a significant figure. The last time he had managed to witness the equal amount of orcs was probably that at the Helm's Deep.

Lith fluttered her wings, and the black throng disappeared, having merged with the gloom of the ground, mildly illuminated by the dots of reddish flame.

The girl leaned against him, her hands brushing against his chest to close around his forearms. As her warmth gently crept under his cloak, lulling the strain in his stone-heavy muscles, Legolas almost regretted that the flight couldn't last forever.

* * *

He had heard her hiss long before his eyes made out three black silhouettes on the horizon, which were approaching them with the fastness and resolve, leaving no doubts about their intentions. Lith was large and dangerous, but the creatures, consuming miles like mere inches towards the monster, made it look a whelp in comparison even with a wing of each of them.

"What should I do?" Legolas had to shout to overvoice the whistling of the raging wind.

"I don't know!"

The riders ahead exhaled dreary horror – their featureless helmets were dim, as if the spiky steel devoured the glimpses of sunlight instead of reflecting them.

"Can we fight them?" asked the elf, knowing beforehand that even be they armed – be they able to accept the battle with their weapon in their hands – there would be no chances not only to win – to wound any of their enemies… The respond of Gwirith testified that she shared his cheerless certainty:

"Still able to joke?"

Two more wingbeats… Two more wingbeats, and their flight will be over. The first of the nazguls raised his iron-wrapped hand…

"Hold on!" yelled the girl suddenly, "Down!"

With the last flash of his freezing reason Legolas noted the threefold angry howl, having broken out from their persecutors, when Lith dropped its wings and dashingly dove into the dark abyss below them. Gwirith uttered an exclamation of careless triumph.

The ground impended them sooner than the infuriated ring-wraiths had forced their too sluggish animals to maneuver and swoop after. Legolas's stomach dashed to his throat. Nauseating opalescent circles were blazing up in his eyes, obliterating all the clear lines of his surrounding. Everything seemed to turn into the grey medley of lacerated clouds, reeking fumes and biting wreaths of dust. His body was felt only there, where tenacious fingers of Gwirith were growing into his skin and nearly breaking his bones.

Lith accomplished a jerky turn, and the light suddenly went out, having contracted into a thin broken streak above their heads, while Legolas was practically shaken off the back of the monster. However, instead of enduring a long flight downwards and a neck-breaking collision with the ground, he got off with comparatively a gentle jolt and one or two bruises.

Rubbing his aching nape, he threw an angry stare at Lith, who appeared to have landed a step away from him.

The scenery around reminded of the passage at the approaches of Moria – with the only difference in the height of the austere cliffs and the wideness of the path itself. No wonder he hadn't held himself in the saddle. It must have taken a fabulous accuracy on the part of Lith not to crash against the rocks and slip into the tiny slit in almost a monolithic slab over them. Legolas was inclined to ascribe the success rather to incredible luck than to the smartness of the creature. Though Gwirith appeared to be of a different viewpoint…

With a joyful cheer she jumped off the monster and clasped the scaly neck in her arms, making Lith purr something low and pleased, as its sharp tongue at one go licked smooth a half of its owner's bronzed mane.

"My girl…," laughed Gwirith softly, trying to put her hair back into its shape.

"Why aren't they following us?" Legolas was worriedly studying the chink in the rocks, but no shadows flew past it and no snarling could be heard, though it would be natural and understandable. From what he knew about nazguls, they were not eager to relinquish their victims so easily.

"They drive grown-up beasts," explained the girl simply, "And Lith is no more than a cub. A female cub. What is possible for her is beyond their abilities. That's why I chose her when I had such a chance."

"Are we not flying again?" asked the elf, for she had gently stroke Lith under its chin and waved her hand, the gesture clearly stating her wish to let the animal go.

"We don't need to," her voice was toneless, as she condescended to turn her head and face him, "We are now just several miles away from our aim. No, it's not Mordor yet," a faint smile crossed her lips at seeing his frown, "At least, not the heart of it. It's only the environs of Cirith Ungol. Come, there is a long walk ahead."

Not waiting for his answer, she set to a swift walk along the passage. Lith snorted with resentment – the girl halted and gave it a wink, beckoning the creature to leave the stony trap.

There was no other choice but to follow his guide, although he cherished a vague desire to ask her how came that in her previous stories the way out had been in Mordor itself, and now it had shifted to Cirith Ungol for no apparent reason. But remembering the rebuke she hurled at him in Moria, when he dared call her words in question, he kept the urge to himself.

They failed to make a mere dozen of steps, when a gust of draught delivered a distant roar and barely discernible tread of thousand feet… Her sudden paleness couldn't escape his sharp attention, yet in a moment she smirked and found the strength for a bitter jest:

"Sorry, I was mistaken. There is a long _run_…"

* * *

They were too slow… Even as running, they couldn't stop the footfall behind them from getting deterrently audible. The hard breathing of Gwirith stated that she hadn't had much practice in racing for long distances. With each stride she was falling behind the elf, and he had to slacken his pace to back her up. If Legolas were alone, he would be much faster, but now… All that he could was to pray Varda to shorten their path.

He averted his glance only for a breath… When he looked at her again, her foot was already touching that accursed stone. Dumbfounded, the elf was too late to catch her… In the next instance the girl was rolling on the dusty ground, holding onto her ankle, the expression of surprise and offence in her wide-open eyes. She attempted to get up, but fell back with a brief outcry.

"I cannot," whispered she, shaking her head. Their gazes crossed – she stubbornly pursed her lips and pointed at the passage ahead, "Run. We're almost there. You'll see the dead-end – don't turn anywhere – the door would be right in front of you. Just push the wall, and it will open."

"But you…"

"Run!"

Without much thinking Legolas ignored her objections and quickly picked her up. She was still lightweight for him, notwithstanding his tiredness and her attempts to repulse him.

"Do you want them to overtake us?"

Her fist stood still a hair away from his chest.

"Then be still," muttered the elf, resuming his run.

He would have hit the wall, if she hadn't stopped him. The dead-end came so soon, that he hadn't managed even to get weary of his burden. He carefully restored Gwirith to the ground, allowing her to rest against his shoulder. The wall screeched under her push.

Eru…

A door grew out of nowhere. Not a door – a doorway, almost a mirror, framing the most gorgeous sight he had ever imagined. Crystal azure of the heaven, iridescent streams of the waterfall, the emerald crowns of trees, rippling in the wind…

"Go," rustled Gwirith, moving aside with difficulty. He made a step forward, enchanted by the beauty of the picture… Just one more inch to bring him home.

But he instantly started back from the welcome freedom… There was one thing he couldn't do.

"I won't leave you in here," said he resolutely, taking her hand in his, "Come with me."

Gwirith jerked her palm out of his grasp, looking at him with such rage and astonishment, as if he had offered her to kill herself.

"You don't understand what you are saying," she tried to go, yet her leg sank under her and she had to lean against the wall, "You have no idea, what you are saying…"

"Why? You saved me. How can I escape, knowing that you are in danger?"

"Go!" shouted she desperately, tears flowing down her face in an uncontrollable flood, "I don't want to see you anymore!"

But when he made a move, the girl suddenly leapt up, as though having forgotten about the stretched ankle.

"Stop! Don't do it…"

Not letting him have his say, she tilted her head, sending in the air the same scream, she had once used to beckon Lith.

A thin whiz swished the silence, which followed her call. Something hit Legolas in the chest, making him stagger. Losing his balance, he noticed the white feathers of an arrow, bright against the blackness of his cloak.

The step was committed.

The doorway swallowed him without any sounds.

* * *

A wave of acrid heat slashed Legolas against the face, scalding his cheeks and sinking its teeth into his eyes. The arrow-shaft was still protruding out of his chest – half-conscious, he gripped at the plumage and pulled it, wincing as the blood-stained point appeared before him. Blood rushed onto his cloak, and he clutched at the wound to stop it. All of a sudden, the sense of what had happened dawned upon him, emptying his mind from all the thoughts except one…

Gwirith…

The elf whipped around, but the wall behind him bore no slightest signs of having a secret door in it. Or that's what he could conclude from his feverish scrutiny.

She had committed a mistake. There probably had never been any way out of this world, and what they both had seen had been nothing, but a wicked illusion.

And they were trapped – both of them… Separated. And equally helpless against it…

In pain and anger he banged the hateful wall, almost willing to bawl with despair. His chest was growing numb, while the life was spilling out of it with each blow, he rained down on insensible rock, but he didn't notice it…

For she was there. And there were the orcs, which had gifted him with this wound. The outcome was evident.

How could he even think of leaving her!

A cold chuckle behind his back interrupted his mad and fruitless attempts to get out.

Slowly, as if poured over with icy water, Legolas turned around to see a fire-filled, painfully familiar opening and a tall figure of someone, who was acidly curving his thin lips at the frozen elf.

Black, soulless eyes sparkled on the elven-featured face of the stranger, and Legolas immediately recalled the day he had first met this man. It was the half-bred, who aroused that pitiful jealosy of his by sharing the company of Gwirith at the dinner in Hollin. It was the single one of all those men in the inn to watch the hiding elf, not his fair lady-companion, while they were moving along the hall to their temporal shelter… It was the one whom Gwirith allowed to touch her, showing no resistance…

"Mae govannen, gwador nin," the man in the opening grinned, and stepped aside to let in the prisoner, "Minno…" (Well met, my brother. Enter.)


	15. The Lord and The Lady

**Disclaimer: **As I always, I don't own it.

**Author's note: **Well, it took this chapter long to be out. It's a bit disorderly, but be it so. :o)))

**Faerlas: **Hugs, as always. :o))

**Neniel Sildurien: **It may be too late to say it, but after heaving read your review I began to think that my plotline is too dull and simple. :o))) Pity that it was too late to change anything.

**Elven Script: **The "Post soon"- thing failed, but I hope you'll forgive me. Will you? Thanks for wonderful reviews. :o))

**Chapter 15**.

_**The Lord and The Lady.**_

He saw this place in the weird dreams, which had been pursuing him since he had appeared in this realm. A cave of fire, where even stones were red-hot. The ocean of liquid flame in the precipice below his feet. And a narrow ledge, on the rim of which a lone figure was standing. Yet this time it didn't belong to Gwirith.

The stranger smiled again, but as soon as the corners of his lips sank back, the lines of his face quivered and began to change.

The touch of mortality melted away from it, and his hair flashed with goldish tint, leaving no memory of their former raven-black. His features sharpened and got regally-refined, their perfection and purity almost unimpaired by the rough white scar on the right cheek.

In a time not enough to make a breath Legolas appeared face to face with himself.

"Forgive the unworthy disguise, my brother," the twin casually touched his skinned over injury, "I was curious on your part, but didn't want to spoil your pleasure of surprise."

Legolas was silent. For some reason the change didn't astonish him. He had seen and borne too much to be astonished.

So that's what would have expected him, if he had yielded to the charms of the Ring. Hard and smirking lips, imperious manner, and the shimmer of vicious calmness in the eyes, which no longer seemed elven.

The being that knew his own value. The sparkling blade of an old, vile and blood-lusting sword.

"You won't say anything?"

What could he say? Though… There was one suspicion he needed to be assured of.

"Where's Gwirith?"

"Is that all?" the Dark Lord raised his brows with a foul grin, "Is that the only question you want to ask?"

Legolas nodded, not honouring him with a single word. If the betrayer wanted his fear or deference, he was mistaken. After all, who fears of himself? Who shuns his own mirror reflection?

The scarred one shrugged his shoulders, wrapped in black and silver.

"Gwirith!" called he in an undertone, "Show yourself, my lady. He will find everything out sooner or later, so why not now?"

Shadows on the walls flinched. Legolas didn't need to turn his head to tell, whose breathing had suddenly become audible behind his back. He had heard this sound before – in the dark room of the inn, when a dying maiden was huddled in his arms, begging him to let her go. In the halls of Moria, when his lips were salty with the blood, which he had kissed away from her sore skin. Gwirith, Gwirith, Gwirith…

The girl slipped by him, so close that her sleeve brushed against his shoulder.

She didn't raise her eyes off the ground, and her bosom was heavily heaving under the vest, which was shabby and threadbare as compared to the royal outfit of the elf, to whom she was slowly strolling. Her thin fingers lay into his hand – limp, as if deprived of every single bone, she let him draw her against his chest. Like a puppet. A broken puppet.

With a murderous certainty Legolas felt that she knew his glance was riveted to her, as she threw back her head to look in the face of her lover. She knew, and she still let the sneering mouth taste her pale lips and linger, deepening the kiss, while the watcher was cringing in bitter realization of what was happening before him.

"Look at him," purred the Dark Lord against the smooth skin of his lady, "Look at my past. He's suffering now. Why? Because he was stupid enough to believe that I would ever lose your sight. Even he wouldn't have…"

Two wells of exhaustion and pain met the eyes of the prisoner.

"I'm sorry, Legolas," her voice was ghostly, "I'm truly sorry."

"Are you, indeed?" muttered Legolas hoarsely, for the air refused to pass through his shrunk throat. Her eyes dashed to the ground, and she quickly averted her face, allowing the flowing hair to hide the look of anguish which had crossed her features.

"You swore with your heart-blood…" reminded he, just to be able to say something. A low sullen chuckle escaped her chest.

"What is one more broken oath? I once betrayed the light for the sake of love," her indifferent and caressing hand came up to stroke the ripped cheek of the one, whose arms were still clasped around her waist, "It brought me nothing but pain. But I have my dignity. I won't be a double traitor. His side I am at, and his side I'll hold. By any means."

She said it so simply, that Legolas realized there was nothing to fight for. There had never been.

"Is it so easy to prove your loyalty at the expense of someone's life?" seethed he quietly. He knew it was hopeless to reproach her, but the bitterness didn't let him restrain the reproof. Gwirith clenched her teeth, her face turning harsh and stony.

"You tell me. Didn't you do it yourself?" darted she, and the mockery in her tone for a second overshadowed the guilty notes.

"True," agreed the elf, "But is it you to amerce me?"

What did he want to obtain, offering her the questions which probably had no answers? She wouldn't feel any shame, so why was he waiting for at least one tear of regret to haze this cruel deliberateness in her glance? But she didn't cry. The only feeling that he managed to awake in her was anger, she hastened to vent on him.

"I'd amerce you for having trusted me, while I had been doing everything to warn you," threw she contemptuously.

"To warn me?" Legolas was indignant, "To warn? You knew it from the very beginning. You lured me out of my world! You brought me here! I wonder if it entertained you to play _her_ ghost. The same place, the same dress, the same blood on you chin… You didn't miss anything, did you?"

Her nostrils widened – Legolas could see the remonstrance boil up in her heart, ready to be spilt. If she only retorted. If she only showed he mattered something to her… But, to his disappointment, she took a hold of herself.

"I want to leave," muttered she to the Dark Lord, straining herself and pushing aside his hands, "You promised…"

"You won't tell him he is wrong?" wondered the latter with mild and obviously feigned surprise. Gwirith arched a brow, a scorn written in her glittering eyes.

"He's not," stated she huskily. Calmly.

"But I won't allow you to be slandered…" objected he - however sounding more caustic than concerned.

"You can do anything you want now," uttered the girl derisively, "Without me. My mission is over. From now on I won't participate in whatever there is to come…"

Her heels screeched, as she sharply whipped round and with a resolute pace moved past the prisoner toward the opening. The Dark Lord grimaced with slight annoyance, but forbore from detaining her.

Yet not all the elves in the cave were as indifferently resigned. She only had to come close enough.

It took Legolas a single lunge. The next moment Gwirith was writhing in his grip, her arm twisted behind her back.

"You will stay," hissed he into her ear, "Until I hear the whole story."

The Dark Lord stepped forward, as his countenance changed in a flash-like manner. Anger flowed through the mantle of ironical composure, making his lofty face almost ugly.

"Let her go," enunciated he dangerously, pointing at the elf's fingers, clutched around the wrist of Gwirith, "Take your hands away from her."

"Jealous?" smirked Legolas, having recalled the phrase, dropped by Gwirith in her conversation with Archaldir. The upper lip of his rival jerked up in a malicious sneer.

"Of you? Of a feeble, foolish, commonplace worm? Of a shilly-shally child, who missed the chance of his life? You could have loved the charming woman, and what did you do? You could have ruled the world, and what did you leave yourself with?"

"With peace and my friends!"

"Will you stop this scoffing!" howled Gwirith suddenly, causing both elves break off and stare at her with the perplexity of face-to-face fighters, who had unexpectedly been assaulted by a common opponent. With fairly inhuman strength the girl wrested her hand out of the clutch, and furiously went at Legolas.

"No - I didn't play your Gwirith! Yes – I had no idea he had managed to bring you here, and was surprised to see you in Rivendell! Yes – when I came back there for you, I was aware of my task already. And no – I didn't want it to happen. I simply had no choice. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Each "yes" or "no" was followed by a violent step in his direction, forcing him to recede, so that by the end of her speech his was practically plastered against the wall.

"I want to hear why," pleaded he quietly, "Why, Gwirith?"

The blush on her cheek-bones was fading… She ran her shaking palms over her face… Dropped them down, making a deep sigh. And all of a sudden smiled – sadly and condescendingly.

"Why?" echoed she with infinite softness, "Because I cared for him. I always had. Anything else was irrelevant. Including you."

Defeated, he lowered his head. There was no pain – the pain would have seemed sweet in comparison with hopeless, mind-draining misery, her words had brought him.

He didn't find the will-power to jerk away from her touch, when her fingertips gingerly brushed against his chin. They were tender, so tender, that he faint-heartedly closed his eyes, for a moment allowing his bleeding soul forget everything but the feeling of her soft caress. He needed that. An instance, just an instance of persuading himself that that was a gesture of love, not of scorn.

"I'm sorry," repeated Gwirith again, taking away her hand, "I did everything I could to save you from this. But I probably was not fated to."

"I find it hard to believe you," breathed out Legolas, still unwilling to give up his momentary weakness.

Her lips flinched, forming a bitter curve.

"Don't trouble yourself," advised she in half-whisper, "Soon it will be of no importance."

"Forsooth," the voice of the Dark Lord cut in the oppressive pause, "You should be proud, my brother. You will get the power, you would have never obtained, if you hadn't appeared here. Pity that you won't know about it."

"I wouldn't accept any power, coming from you," said Legolas coldly.

"You didn't understand, my friend. The power will be mine. All I need is your body," corrected his twin cool-bloodedly, "Unfortunately, this place is useless for accomplishing my plans. It had been useless long before I got the Ring. I had almost despaired of success, when it imparted to me the knowledge about the existence of your world. But to get there I had to appear in a shell of one of its inhabitants. And I believe the shell I found is perfect."

"But wasn't it impossible to deliver me here?" inquired Legolas with contemptuous distrust, "I didn't steal strangers' bodies."

"You touched the ghost of this world. My spirit," chuckled the Dark Lord smugly, "I simply created the illusion you couldn't refuse to pursue."

Exasperated as he was, Legolas couldn't but admit the flawlessness of the reasoning, thought it was most unflattering for him. Imagine him having risen like a fish to bait… That probably wasn't hard for his enemy to render the image of Gwirith, considering their intimacy. Besides, he wasn't the first to use such tricks for shady purposes.

"I once committed a foolish mistake having tried to share this might with father," continued the Ring-owner, his brow slightly darkening at the remembrance, "I should have known he had resigned the danger and humiliation of allying with mortals. As most of our people had. I've trapped myself, having failed to take their obstinacy into account. That's why I was forced to resort to violence. In your world I'll be wiser. After all, there's no hurry, when you are immortal."

"Nobody will listen to you," responded Legolas with firm confidence. His twin gave a scornful sniff.

"I don't say they will listen to me. They will listen to _you_. Consider – everyone who was loyal to the will of Valars, left long ago. But there are those who linger. Indecisive minds. Loners. Waywards. Beneficial ears for what you, Legolas, the noble-blooded fighter against the darkness, will tell them. You are one of those out of suspicion."

"I can't imagine what a vile soul could have given birth to your idea," uttered the elf distinctly. The thought that he might serve the instrument of destruction of everything and everyone he cared for was abominable. And he himself had caused it with his criminal naivety…

"He cannot imagine! Peer into yourself, Legolas. Have you never been vexed by the fading grandeur of our race? Have you never regretted that you, not the last of the elves, fell to running errands to each handful of imperfect creatures that managed to gain a more or less respectful position? Men, dwarves, hobbits. Riffraff! Look deeper inside your heart, and dare swear that I calumniate you."

Involuntary colour showed on Legolas's face, as he tried to object, but instantly realized that there was nothing to say against it. Yes, there had been moments – moments of rare, disgraceful, thoroughly concealed doubts, when his notable heredity, aggravated with the pride and arrogant haughtiness, streaming in his veins with the blood of his father, made itself felt. There had been moments, when he wanted to rebel. It was useless to deny them. All the elves suffered the same fate.

But he had never thought that, given the opportunity, he was able to go that far. Was he indeed so self-assertive? So merciless?

"Why didn't you capture me at once?" asked he, having chosen to avoid further debates on the disturbing subject.

"I was interested in getting your body as scatheless as it was possible. If I had send orcs or nazguls, you would have fought them. Got injured or killed. I couldn't risk."

"That's why you sent Gwirith…" said Legolas slowly. He was ready to kill himself for the boundless stupidity. For all that time the fact that the almighty Ring-owner hadn't found better force to catch him, had served him an argument in favour of Gwirith. He had never given himself the trouble of thinking over some other possibility, like existence of a certain motive on the part of his enemy. The Dark Lord was right, granting him with the stamp of foolish childness. He had deserved it.

"Was I mistaken?" his twin smiled with unbearable conceit, "Though once she almost failed me. I understood it when she led you to Moria."

"You are not saying that she really dared go against you and save me, are you?" He had to know that the question was hopeless. Otherwise Gwirith would have never returned to lead him away from the elves.

"I wonder if you need her defiled or idolized," the Dark Lord screwed up his eyes, evidently making fun of the unlucky rival, "She just wanted you to be dead before you became my guest, so that her conscience was clear. Unfortunately for her, Archaldir had always been inclined to muse too much, and that allowed you to survive. Were you disappointed, my love?" asked he, shifting his attention to Gwirith.

She didn't answer, still like a sculpture of ice… Something elusive had crept into her despairing stare. She seemed to be examining a thing that none of them saw, a thing that caught her completely. The sound of the Dark Lord's voice stirred her a little, but the cloud of some heavy reflections, which had drooped around her, had evidently devoured the sense of the offered question.

"I'll stay," muttered she at last, the comment being queerly out-of-place for someone, who used to be so conscious of spoken words, like she. The black sovereign granted her with a strange glance, which was also left unnoticed.

"Anyway," continued he, having torn away from scrutinizing the pensive wrinkle on the girl's forehead,  
"She was right. Soon it will be of no importance. Farewell, my brother."

The Ring had hungrily flared on his finger, and the contours of his body thawed in the sizzling hot air.

The next moment Legolas felt his legs sink under him, as a dead, stark hand squeezed his heart. The cave went dark before him… His mind got filled with dim images. Shreds of a strange, stormy, someone else's life, distantly similar to his past…

Gwirith, standing on the snowy bridge in Rivendell, laughing and careless… The Fellowship, lagging among freezing grey hills – his friends, each weapon-laden and exhausted, but cheering up the others with half-sincere jokes… Dead faces, motionless bodies, arrows and swords, and blood… Marshes. Dark passages. The lake of fire. The girl, shedding bitter and desperate tears in his arms…

And, outshining it all – sparkling and alluring… Mighty and irresistible… The trophy of pure power. The Ring of Sauron.

His Ring.

Legolas moaned, still catching at the body, which no longer belonged to him. Dreadful spirits were gathering around him, staring at him with their empty eye-sockets… Hailing him like their newly-found fellow.

And he had nearly gave up – he had nearly let them whirl him into their deadly circle, when they suddenly uttered a manifold groan and scattered away, shunning the creature, which was noiselessly making its way towards him.

A warm hand lay on his forehead, spreading a welcome heat over his numb skin. The creature leaned in, its features still indistinct through the pane of such recent agony, and a kiss, radiant with the shine of life, woke the elf up from the grave slumber.

"Gwirith…," wheezed out he, too weak to touch her hands as she buried them in his loose hair, gently stroking away his shiver, "What…"

"What are you doing!"

The girl didn't bat an eye, when the fierce roar shook the cave vault.

"Not letting you kill yourself," replied she calmly, turning to the point of the ledge, from where the sound had come, "Isn't it clear?"

The silhouette of the Dark Lord loomed at the background of raving flame, rapidly getting clearer, as if someone was filling a mould with molten iron.

He was terrifying. Distorted lines of his face blurred, as though he was unable to give them their proper shape. Elven features changed into human and back – the sweat on his forehead spoke about the strenuous efforts it cost him to hold this appearance from getting unraveled.

"Gwirith, you disappoint me," snarled he, and it startled Legolas how orcish his voice was, "I had borne your strange attachment to him, but that passes all the bounds."

"Oh?" responded Gwirith evenly, "And what will you do?"

The edges of a black cloak angrily swept against the ground, when the blistering being – for in that moment no one would dare call him elf or man – swiftly slid towards her, the space flaring and shriveling around him.

"I knew it. I knew that you'd betray me for him. Or did you think I wouldn't get all those blatant hints you gave him? _Shun my aid while you can,_" mocked he maliciously, "_I'm an utter curse, Legolas I want to die. Please, let me go… I want you to evaluate your chances soberly, and choose with your eyes open…_ If you could only see how poor and stupid it was…"

"You are right," agreed Gwirith with eases, "That was stupid. I should have known that I won't manage to keep you and him at once. I thought that you were what I needed. Now I see that I was mistaken. And you were, too, when you chose me to bring him here."

She sent a sad smile to Legolas, and he had to lower his eyes, not able to stand her bitterly soft look. But what he saw on the ground made him immediately toss his head again, and the words of warning were ready to escape his mouth…

Gwirith was standing on a barely noticeable, slowly widening crack, which had stretched itself across the whole ledge. Having intercepted his glance, she guardedly shook her head, beckoning him to be silent. She knew…

There was something about the way her lashes fell on her cheeks that froze him alive, leaving him horrified at the evil premonition. She had the air of the one, going to the doom.

"You know," she didn't look at Legolas anymore, addressing only to his twin. "For all these years I kept seeing you the way you had been when I had first met you. I persuaded myself that you remain the same elf I had fallen in love with…You shouldn't have shown him to me, meleth nin, for the difference appeared to be too sticking. Look at yourself. Even your face is not yours anymore."

Her speech was flowing smoothly and easily, but it seemed to hurt the Dark Lord more than if she were storming or abusing him.

"My face? Is that why you stopped loving me?" his hand shot up, covering the scar on an instantly paled cheek. Gwirith uttered a small sound of protest, reaching out to take his palm off the injury and press it to her face.

"I never stopped loving you. And I never will. But no one will ever make me love this mockery of what you are. I'm tired of loving the Ring!"

Slightly trembling, the black sovereign let his fingers slid through her hair. His brows knit, as if he was trying hard to recall something forgotten.

"Legolas," whispered Gwirith suppliantly, and tears swell in her eyes, as he started at the sound of his own name, "Legolas, come back to me. Come back. I cannot bear it – I don't want to… Look what it had done to you, my life! I beg you – for the sake of my love… of _your_ love, if you still love me – come back…"

The time slackened its strides. Minutes were endlessly long.

And when another century passed, and it was beginning to seem that the world had stopped forever, the Dark Lord suddenly let out a shaky sigh.

In a fleeting instant malice streamed out of him, leaving him lost and empty. He blinked, as though the dull light of the cave was too bright for his night-accustomed vision. His eyes lingered on Gwirith, and all of a sudden he sharply drew in the air, his confusion turning into blank terror…

"Eru, what have I done…" breathed out he, brusquely embracing the sobbing girl.

Her weeping became only louder, as if all the unshed tears of the past finally broke the weir of indifferent archness, which had been protecting her from the pain and grief.

"I'm sorry," the elf was rocking her like she was an ill child – his voice was constrained with regret and self-hatred, "Gwirith, I'm so sorry…I love you."

"I love you," echoed she through the tears, cupping his dismayed face.

And neither Arda, nor the Undying lands had ever witnessed the passion and tenderness, with which they lips met.

Like a spell-bound, Legolas was watching Gwirith twine her arms around his twin, never severing the bliss they shared… bring her slender body closer to his rising and falling chest, … and heavily stamp her foot against the rock of the ledge.

The crack yawned, the stone no more able to resist destruction.

There was nothing he could do when the flinders of the ledge came down, depriving the couple of its solid support.

In a blink of an eye he remained the only breathing being in the cursed cave.

* * *

_I hope I didn't let anything out…_

_Yours, Adamanta._


	16. Closed circles

**Disclaimer:** I would be stupid to claim that I own Lord of the Rings.

**Author's note: **Now it's complete. I'd be infinitely thankful, if you reviewed one last time. After all, there are no more chapters to come. :o))

**Faerlas: **Here it is now. And Lapsus didn't interfere much. :o))

**Neniel Sildurien: **Привет! Hey, where did you disappear? Is everything all right? I hope you are just busy… Drop a note, OK?

**scoobygang-alumni: **Hi! I'm very glad that you liked my little tale, and it's pleasant that you went so deep into it. Thank you very much. :o)) And yes, you are right about the death of Gwirith. I didn't explain it straightly, but it is so. And thanks again for the compliments.

**ElvenScript: **Oh, sorry, dear, I didn't mean to upset you. And for sure I didn't mean to make you stop reading other angsty stories. :o))) I hope this chapter can brighten you up a little. :o)

**Chapter 16.**

**Closed circles.**

Death-like stillness forged the cave. Not a breath, not a cry… Even the flame seemed to abate its fury, staggered by the performance, having been played before it.

Beside himself with numb amazement, Legolas slowly crawled to the edge, where a minute ago two interlaced figures were standing in forgetful unity… Looked over it… And closed his eyes, as the morbid truth stole its way into his mind.

Over. All over.

Nobody to save. Nobody to fear. Nobody.

Unthinkingly, he moved away from the lifeless bowl of boiling lava. There was nothing he could do.

The feeling was close to that, he experienced in his dream, seeing Gwirith disappear in the precipice with a heart-breaking shriek. How could he cry then? Now, when she perished so soundlessly... so resolutely… there were no tears to pour out the grief that had seized him.

A choking sound escaped his lips. He flinched, but remained standing. For some time…

The next gleam of reason found him already on his knees. Rocking back and forth, like Gwirith did it in the inn… Gwirith…Gwirith…Gwirith…

Certainty, bordering with madness, possessed him. She will return. She always returned. She was stronger than the death itself. All he needed was to call her…

"Gwirith!" a desperate wail soared up to the rocky vault and fell back like a stone. Something trembled in the heart of the red abyss, and growled, making the ledge shake…

He knew what it meant. He felt the anger and revolt, which were arisen in the ancient soul of the mountain at the loss of the powerful child, once born in its fire.

But he couldn't leave without her… Why didn't she come at his call? Gwirith… Gwirith…

How could a girl from another world have an elvish name? Gwirith… He called her Gwirith, but it wasn't the name he had heard from her at their first meeting…

What made him translate it then?

Gwirith…

_April._

"April!"

The sound of his own strained and husky voice sobered Legolas, making him start at the realization of how insane his plea was…

Dead. Gwirith or April, _she_ was dead. And he will die, too, because the rising heat had already splattered the walls with clefts and chaps, and the mountain was roaring, ready to fall apart and spout murderous burning waves, destroying as many lives as it was able to…

Let it. He had nothing to live for anymore.

Legolas didn't avert his eyes, when the chasm at his feet uttered one last snarl, and belched the pillar of fire, so high that it could lick a tiny patch of heaven somewhere unreachably far above…

* * *

_He was sitting on the back of Lith, his head heavy with the retreating sleep… Two wings were evenly squishing blurry and viscous clouds at his sides. And the leaden clod was aching in his chest, vaguely reminding of the strange and sinister vision, he had seen._

_Little by little he began to realize that instead of scaly skin his hands were resting upon something warm and downy. The sensation was somehow familiar…_

_Feathers._ _He was catching at long grayish feathers, which Lith certainly couldn't possess. _

"_Gwirith…" muttered he, merely surprised at the pain in his throat. It felt like he had swallowed a cup of hot metal, "Gwirith, what…"_

"_Gwirith is gone."_

_The voice was deep and soothing, infinitely old, and nevertheless keeping more might and reason, than any other voices, Legolas had ever heard. The majestic elder, riding in front of him on a flat back of a giant eagle, tuned his head, and the elf saw a weary wrinkled face, lit up with the shimmer of sharp, but compassionate eyes, and framed with the snowy white hair… _

_So it wasn't a dream. Legolas lowered his head…_

"_Mae govannen, Mithrandir," uttered he flatly. Well met. Why hadn't his wise ancestors invented another form of greeting, more suitable for such meetings..? _

_The wizard nodded in return, probably guessing that any words were inappropriate. They were flying in silence – a tired elder and a thoughtless, listless elf, fixing his empty stare on the horizon, where the dawn was burning like the heart of dying Orodruin. _

"_Where have you been for all that time?" finally asked Legolas, hurt and challenge ringing in his whisper-like voice. _

"_I've been trying to correct the irreparable," sighed Gandalf with the air of endless sadness, "And each time I revealed blameworthy tardiness. But now it's over without my help." _

_The guilt is his answer didn't soothe the elf. One thought that she could have been alive if the wizard had come earlier, infuriated and embittered him. _

"_At what cost?" spit out he with a crooked smirk._

"_Don't grieve, Legolas," responded Gandalf softly, "She paid her debt. Her life completed the way it should have, and not many achieve this honour." _

_Before Legolas could rejoin, the eagle had suddenly rushed down like a swift arrow. The skies swung open, erasing the sight of the ground… _

"_What are you doing?" shouted the elf, and the whining wind caught up his cry, tearing it into pieces. He didn't hear the words of reply, but guessed them from the movements of the old man's lips: _

"_Sending you home…" _

* * *

His cheek was lying against soft summer grass, which had already begun to fade under the breath of approaching autumn. Slightly, but inevitably…

The air was thick with precious sunlight and bitter scent of overheated leaves. He inhaled deeply, letting the goldish blossom-dust dwell on his lips…

"Here he is!" sharply exclaimed someone above him, "I found him! I found the prince!"

He wanted to cry. He desperately wanted to allow the tears in his eyes to spill on the welcoming ground and carry away his incurable angst.

But he stood up dry-lashed, his burnt face expressing nothing except mild gratitude at the joyous smiles and countless questions of elves and men, who had come from nowhere and suddenly surrounded him.

Here he was the prince. And here he had no right to be weak.

* * *

**Epilogue.**

It was hard to believe that only yesterday this world was as far and unattainable as the reflection of stars in a sleeping river.

He was still in Rivendell – the place, from where he had been withdrawn several months ago. The place, to where he came back the day before.

They had been searching for him days and nights. They hadn't hoped to find him in Rivendell anymore. It was Archaldir, who insisted on returning here, and like always, he appeared to be right.

Legolas was washed clean, dressed according to his position, cured, and fed, and inquired. But his answers were short, and everyone soon left him alone, seeing his reluctance to narrate anything.

It was decided that the elves would spend one more day in the empty chambers of Lord Elrond, before heading back to Mirkwood –with gladdening news for everyone who still lived there. The prince didn't seem strong enough to endure such a long road…

…With a gone look and a gone heart he was roaming through the rich gardens of Rivendell, unreasonably angry at the florescence around him and yearning for darkness and shambles. He reached the most undercover corners and clearings, and felt as if he had walked for many and many miles. There was only one spot, he avoided like a plague, though wherever he went, his feet invariably brought him there. To the chiselled bridge and the shiny waterfall. To his memories.

And even now he was standing before the wall of the dew-powdered trees, fighting with himself…

_There was nothing to shun there_, he persuaded his craven feet. _And nothing to hope for_ - objected the abominably judicious mind.

To put an end to the pointless argument, he resolutely stepped out of the garden right into the fateful yard. And gave a start, his eyes widening in shock and unbelief…

There, on the whitest stones of the bridge… Dark and torn against the perfection of the scenery… A girlish figure was cuddled up to the cold carved banisters…

Suddenly weak, he leaned against the trunk of a nearest tree, and with his heart beating madly and painfully was watching the rolled-up silhouette…

Then gingerly stole closer. The figure didn't stir, as if the lying girl was sleeping or dead.

More scared of confirming the second guess, than careful not to trouble her if she was only unconscious, he noiselessly knelt by her side and with a shaky hand removed the loose and dirty hair from her face.

Her scorched lashes moved, so slightly that Legolas wasn't sure if their tremble hadn't been caused by the gentle blowing of breeze.

But the next instance he lost his breath, as his anxious glance was granted with a weak shimmering of brownish eyes between half-open lids.

"He…He didn't let me die," rustled she with difficulty. Legolas didn't have any time to answer – the uttered words had deprived her of the last strength, and she relaxed, falling into a faint again.

The elf leaned in, easily lifting the slim body, and stood up with a precious burden, curled against his now light chest.

"Neither will I," whispered he firmly, "Neither will I."

* * *

**The end.**

**October, 3, 2005, 20:12**

_My warmest thanks to all who read it and reviewed it._ _I means much to me. _

_Yours, Adamanta._


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